


Nephion

by TariTheNurse



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Absence, Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Anxiety, Brainwashing, Canon-Typical Violence, Cussing, Fluff, Frustration, Grieving, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Imprisonment, Killing, Loss, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Mutual Pining, Pining, Rape Recovery, Season/Series 12 Spoilers, Sexual Content, Shitty father figures, Some lines not mine, Spoilers, Swearing, Torture, description of wounds/injuries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2019-06-22 12:59:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 60
Words: 113,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15582528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TariTheNurse/pseuds/TariTheNurse
Summary: "The Winchester brothers have always known how to handle any creature (or at the very least, they'd quickly find out). There've always been monsters, ready to hunt or be hunted, but there's one kind that shouldn't even exist in the first place. As the struggle continues to save the earth and its inhabitants from the ever-looming apocalypse, new complications and battles arise."Following the main plot-line of s.12, this fic explores the "what-ifs" and "could'ves" while going further behind the scenes.HOLY Chuck it looks insane with all those chapters, but they're all rather short. Pls don't be scared off.





	1. When it all began

**When it began**

Starting up the new playlist, Leira can’t help but smirk a little. It’s only just midnight, but already she’s spotted three possible meals…the only issue is which one to choose. It looks like she’ll have to make a decision later, though, because the line at the bar is growing quickly. _Damn it, Nina._ Leira’s co-worker (and the closest thing she’s got a friend) is a no-show tonight, probably too wasted after feeding on the junky she picked up on her way home yesterday. The vampire should know better than to go for those with drugs in the blood. That shit can seriously mess with the mind. Yeah, she’ll get a talking to once she comes ‘round. Right now, all Leira can do is pick up the pace to serve the waiting customers their beers and shots.

 _So, what will it be?_ Stealing a quick glance, she dismisses the young man as a potential meal when he takes out a pack of cigs. Sure, the main reason to tap him was for the blood, but a bit of make-out is never bad before a bite and snogging someone who tastes of ashtray is not on Leira’s top ten. That leaves the chick who’s drowning her heartbreak in tequila at the other end of the bar by herself or the body-builder type guy sitting with his friends by the door.

“Yo, Cassy! Just gonna go down to grab another crate of Buds.” Billy, her boss, yells over the din of the music and chatting.

Cassy isn’t her real name, just one she chose when she moved to this dump of a town, and Billy doesn’t need to yell because she can hear him just fine…but he doesn’t know that. Only Nina does. When she’s around the two women play a game of listening in on secrets or couple’s activities out on the loo. The point is to get the juiciest gossip and whoever wins can challenge the loser to do anything. It’s more than a game though. It’s what keeps them alive, this way to pick up on anything that shouldn’t be happening in town. The place is tiny and there’s only room for a few supernatural beings without them being noticed, so neither Leira nor Nina are interested in some moron dragging in a shitty attitude and outing themselves and them in the process. For the five years Leira’s lived here, there’s never been a hunter stopping by.

Bill comes clattering back up the stairs from the basement and slams the crate down on the floor. “Start stacking, will you?”

“Sure, man.”

When the woman squats in front of the lowest shelves of the fridge, she hears the door open and close, letting in the smell of wet night, asphalt, and old car together with a guy. _No….two guys._ All the regulars are here tonight, but sometimes a carload of people drop in from one of the neighbouring towns. Either way, new customers means new orders and she knows that Bill sure as hell isn’t going to move a muscle to serve anyone. That’s why he hires pretty girls like her or Nina.

Her hands move swiftly to stack the bottles nice and tight, but it still takes a few minutes that she uses to get a feel for the men waiting. One smells amazingly healthy, the other… _not so much._ And there’s a cold, flat scent of metal and gunpowder which means at least one of them carries a gun. Popping up, she pushes the long hair out of the face before coming face to face with them.

 _FUCK!_ She knows these guys. Any monster does. They are the brothers monster parents tell scary stories about to their kids to get them to behave (or at least they should, if they could be bothered with that, but most monsters just want to kill and feast – sometimes even their own offspring). They are the Winchesters, best damned hunters in the States and the ones who have fucked up the most things for both humans, demons, angels and, well, everything else. A billion thoughts are racing through Leira’s head, most of them concerned about if they’ve found out about her or Nina. Maybe they’re just passing through? Maybe they’re tracking someone else? Maybe they’re why Nina’s not at work?

Steeling herself with a calming breath, she puts on the sweetest waitress-smile she can muster. “Heya fellas, what can I get y’all?” _Oscar-worthy._

“Two taps and two tequilas.” The shorter of them drawls. He has that confident air of someone who knows he can take on anyone in the bar in a fistfight and get out on top.

“Dean…” The brother sighs. He’s the healthy one…judging just from looks, though, you wouldn’t have thought there was a difference as they both are perfectly toned.

“Alright,” shrugging, Dean recovers smoothly, “two taps and a whiskey, then.”

 _They don’t know about me at least._ Rumour has it, that they don’t play around before showing their teeth. “A’right, mister.” She’s already grabbed the glasses and propped the first under the tap, with a wave of the hand she points to the shelves of liquor. “Any particular poison?”

“Jack’s number seven, sweetheart.” He smiles…and fuck that’s too cute a face to belong to a hunter.

A frown is gracing the tall one. “That’s actually not a whiskey.”

“Shut uuup, Sammy.”

Leira places the now filled glasses of beer in front of the guys. “Ya br-buddy’s right, mate. Jack’s a bourbon, but I’ll let it slide this time.”

She manages another smile, even though she’s falling apart inside. _Fuck!_ She’d almost said ‘brother’! Hopefully they’ll think it’s just a stutter and won’t think twice of it. Even with the back turned, she can feel their eyes on her as she pours the golden liquid into a tumbler, making the neck of the bottle click slightly against the edge of the glass because the hand is shaking. Hopefully, it’s just nerves, but as she feels her canines ache, she knows it’s hunger. _Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!_ Why does she always push the feeding to last moment? She can get by quite well on normal food, but eventually she’ll need blood, just like the vampires like Nina do all the time.

“Here ya go, hon.” The smile’s a tad more tight-lipped this time.

As Leira turns to busy herself with drinks for the regulars, Dean suddenly grabs her wrist. “Hold on one sec.” He lets go right away and the woman thanks her creators she’s got a pulse to keep the skin warm. “We’re looking for a…friend of ours.” The pause before the last words is so discreet that no human would’ve picked up on it.

“Aren’t we all.” _Please, not Nina._ “Look, I got customers waiting, but if ya’re looking for company, then I’m sure ya’ll find someone here tonight.”

“Nono!” Sam (or Sammy) hurriedly interjects. “Not like that. She’s missing and we’re hoping you might have seen her.”

His big brother pulls out a photograph and thrusts it towards her with a commanding demeanour. It’s clearly a still from a surveillance camera, making the black and white quality grainy…but Leira recognizes the person on it. _Nina._ Instantly, there’s a knot in her stomach and her mouth is dry like sand.

“Kinda hard to tell from that pic…guess y’aren’t close enough with ya friend to have a better one?”

The moment she says it, the woman knows it would’ve been better to have shut up. Sometimes her mouth doesn’t want to co-operate, and sass is let out instead.

“Just have a good look.” The smile Dean had sported is long gone, replaced by a calculative glare that could break stone.

A few paces down, one of the regulars yells at the only bartender at work to hurry up and he’s joined by the cajoling of a horde of his friends. _Thank you._ “Listen. I’d love to help ya out, but some of us gotta work. I’ll take a look, when things are calmed down a bit, ‘kay?”

The brothers just nod, allowing her to hurry off to do what she’s hired for.

She’s halfway through the row when she hears Bill talk to the hunters. At first, it’s nothing serious, just about the type of people who come here at the bar, but then Dean pulls out the picture again. _He’ll recognize her._

“Hey Bill! We’re low on Buds again!” Leira yells out, shifting his attention away from the grainy image.

Thankfully, he takes the bait and excuses himself to fetch another crate. _I have to get out of here and warn her._ Her thoughts are getting more desperate as she hands out one drink after the other, but the moment someone orders a round from the tap, Leira’s brain blanks out completely for a heartbeat. The tap’s right where the two damned hunters are sitting. Plucking the glasses from the rack, she averts her eyes as she begins to fill them.

Sam’s looking around the place curiously. It’s not that pretty with its wooden floors dented from years of use, and the walls could need a good scrub and fresh coat of paint…maybe something else than the faded moss-green.

“It’s busy, huh?” Dean’s staring at her. In fact, he’s giving her the elevator stare as much as it’s possible for the bar counter.

“Only place with good prices and a decent playlist in 50 miles.” It’s the usual answer to this sort of question. “Keeps the adults from most towns ‘round entertained.”

Leira follows his gaze as he turns to eye a corner table with a handful of teenagers who’re fidgeting with their pops and OJs. There’s no chance in hell that she’s going to serve a minor alcohol. Not even Lucifer could make her do that.

“How ‘bout them?” He turns back to study how she fills the eleventh glass.

The girl shrugs. “The only other place ‘round here’s prob’ly filled with their friends…but I guess not everyone likes Bieber.”

“Can’t say I blame ‘em.” Dean nods at his brother’s words.

Finally, the last glass is full and she can scurry off, getting a good distance between herself and the two men. Bill’s come back with the crate and he doesn’t look happy when he realizes that they weren’t running low. _Well, fuck you Billy._ He’s not a bad boss, actually, but her temper is frayed thanks to the two human monsters. It makes the teeth throb and every molecule in her is prepping for fight or flight. It’d be easy to get out if she flashed, but the only reason no one has found her yet is because she doesn’t use those kinds of powers.

“Hey, boss. Cover for a moment?”

It’s the last thing Bill wants but there’s no one else around. “Why?”

“Sheesh, gals have bladders too, ya know.”

He shrugs to show it’s okay, and she’s out of there as fast as possible, shedding the little apron and grabbing her leather jacket in the backroom before pushing out the heavy door to the alley behind the bar.

The smell from the dumpsters is pungent and overpowers everything else when Leira breathes in deeply. For just a moment, everything seems to be normal. _Focus. Where to first?_ Nina and Leira live in opposite ends of town, and even though this place in the middle of nowhere is small, she still might be pressed for time if she needs to shake the daft vampire out of a drug haze. Jogging along towards her own little flat, every fiber in her is screaming with different instincts, mostly the urge to flash out of there. That won’t even be possible soon. _Damn it._ Of all the nights, it just had to be this one where she’d pushed herself to the limit before allowing herself to feed and now she’s shaking worse than before and her gut is clenching tightly. Soon the nausea and headache will come, but there’s no time to hunt now.

Once safely inside at home, Leira grabs a backpack and stuffs any cash, cards and ID into a hollowed-out book that is tossed in the bottom of the bag, followed by some clothes, laptop and charger, a knife, a few old notebooks and the only picture she has. Doing something helps, she accepts as she kicks off the sneakers, replacing them with the high-shafted pair of leather boots. From under the couch, the girl pulls the one rare weapon out from its hiding spot. In the dim light from the streetlamps, the silver of the angel blade gleams dangerously before she slides it into the narrow sheath on the right boot. Nina had made that holster (even adding one on the other boot so they match), she’d been thrilled to discover the weapon the friend owned, even though she didn’t dare touch it. Not once had the vampire asked how Leira’d gotten it, and she were grateful for that because some things are better left unsaid. Straightening up, she sweeps one last look over the place she’d called home for five years to make sure there’s nothing she’s forgotten. Then she heads back out in the drizzle.

…

Nina owns a narrow house that looks like it’s being squished from both sides by the newer buildings. To avoid the brightly illuminated street out front, Leira picks her way down a few alleys before effortlessly jumping over the tall fence and landing in the backyard. There are no lights on in any of the windows, but that doesn’t have to mean anything’s wrong - thanks to Nina’s lessons, she knows that vampires don’t need a light to see even on the darkest night, just like her. The steps leading up to the kitchen entrance creak a bit, so the woman freezes to wait for a possible reaction before unlocking the door and slipping inside.

Standing stock still, her heart beating loudly in chest and ears, she breathes in deeply in the hopes of picking up anything. There’s the usual scent of the cat litter that needs to be cleaned, old furniture and the sweet lingering fumes from the gas stove. And a scent of stale, drug laced blood makes her fangs throb and elongate. Leira’s teeth are exactly what humans think of, when they think of vampires. Maybe once in the past some idiot of her kin forgot to wipe the memory of the human he or she had fed on, and since then all bloodsuckers went down in history with a dental prejudice belonging to just one kind of monster. Thank Lucifer, that humans are so amazingly stubborn to refuse what’s right in front of them, preferring to make up their own explanations instead of believing in old tales and nightmares. There’re other smells: car, leather and bad hygiene…probably belonging to the junkie.

Moving soundlessly through the kitchen and living room, the smell of blood gets stronger, leading Leira towards Nina’s bedroom. _She’d have greeted me by now._ The flash of a thought bothers her more than she likes to admit, and she fights her own heartrate down a few notches in the hopes that she’ll be able to hear something else. Anything. The door is not completely closed, and she can see a part of the bed and a man lying on it through the crack, and as she pushes it open the air wafts in her face, bringing the razor-sharp canines the rest of the way out through the gums. Sure, it’s old blood, Nina and other vampires often kill who they feed on, but it’s still blood and her body needs it. As she steps over the threshold, Leira can see that the guy’s been hastily covered, and despite the large wounds on his neck, he still has a smile upon his face. That and the stale smell of sex is enough to inform her that Nina at least make him go out happy. ‘It tastes better that way too’, she can almost hear the friend’s voice the first time she let the other in on the secret.

“Nina?”

She’s nowhere to be seen, but Leira can smell her, and she follows the scent until she can look towards the other side of the bed. Then there’s no more hunger, no thoughts or worries, just cold sorrow as she stares at the separated head that has rolled towards the wall, before she lunges forward.

“Hngph.”

Not the most articulated sound she could have made, but a natural result of the invisible force that prevents her from getting closer no matter how much she struggles. Tumbling backwards to get out of the room, she finds that even that’s impossible and the panic rises in her chest before it’s released in a vicious snarl. _Think, girl. Think!_ Crouching on the floor, she pulls and tears at the rug until the wooden floor beneath is laid barren and she can see that it has been adorned with the spray paint pattern of a demon’s trap. _I’ve got to break it._ She yanks the backpack off the shoulders, searching for the normal knife to scratch out the damned markings and render the trap useless, and her fingers have just curled around the handle when a creak comes from behind – someone just stepped on the doorstep. Someone just snuck up on her!

“Well well, this _is_ a surprise.” It almost sounds like real humour as Dean Winchester chuckles. “You actually had us fooled for a moment, making us think you’re all human.”

Sam is walking around the crouching woman to get a look at her face, and she does her best to hide the fangs. “We didn’t think a demon and a vampire would team up.”

The disapproving way he manages to say that word chips a bit of her heart off. Nina might have been a vampire, but she wasn’t half bad despite killing people. Most of the time she even tried to get hold of donor blood, but it’s hard when hiding out in the middle of fucking nowhere.

Keeping her head down, face half concealed by darkness and the long hair, Leira tries a different tactic. Slowly, she withdraws the hand from the backpack and zips it again. “Doesn’t matter ‘nymore, does it? Please…just let me bury her.” The words are muffled by the fangs, but they don’t know that’s the reason. A demon shouldn’t have fangs.

“Nice try, bitch, but no.” Somehow that derogative sounds wrong coming from the tall man with the soulful eyes.

A new sound makes her look over her shoulder to see how Dean slowly and deliberately is unscrewing the lid of a small hipflask with a crucifix on. _Crap._ If they’d just stuck to the trap, then maybe they’d have believed she were a demon, but holy water? There’s no way she can fake her way out of that. As his arm flails towards the woman, she actually manages to dodge the first sprinkle, but the second hits her full in the face. The hunters’ momentary glee is replaced by surprise when it doesn’t burn the trapped monster’s skin.

“What the hell?” Putting the flask away, Dean eyes his brother with obvious surprise.

 _New plan._ Mustering all the strength, that she has left, Leira slams a fist through the floorboards, ready to tear the ground beneath her feet apart to break the trap and escape. Splinters fly into the air as she rips the first piece of wood up, but then a sharp pain wreaks her head and the world goes black.


	2. In their hands

_Fuck it hurts._ Leira’s senses are coming back one by one and unfortunately it begins with pain. The back of her head is throbbing nearly as bad as the teeth and she can’t hold back a soft groan, startling herself as the sound is echoed off hard concrete. A few sniffs support the woman’s suspicion: they’ve moved her. By the smell of it, the new place is somewhere underground, but dry and dusty. There’s a faint taint of metal and leather to the air, nearly masking the scent of paper. _Storage room._ She manages to open the eyes despite of a layer of salty crust, only to realize that despite her supernaturally good senses it’s almost too dark even for her to see anything other than jagged shapes of what looks like shelving for storage. _So, I’m their prisoner._ How did they even get her there before she came to again? Unless it’s close by…but somehow that doesn’t seem right. Being alive is always preferable than having hunters gank you…except when it’s these two particular humans. Leira shudders, becoming highly aware of the cuffs, straps, and ropes that are holding her up in the chair. Every single limb is strapped tightly down.

“Crap.”

She doesn’t mean to say it, it just slips out when she realizes that even the boots are gone…and with them the angel blade. It’s futile struggling against the bonds because the Winchesters must be too good at this shit to mess up something that simple, but she won’t have anyone say that she didn’t try. The only good it does, however, is to reveal that the chair is bolted to the floor.

So, there she is. Stuck. Caught by the meanest damn hunters in the States. And no one’s going to miss Leira, because the only friend she had is dead thanks to those bastards. It’s too much to bear. They’ve probably just let Nina lie there to rot. The vampire deserved more, a burial with a proper cross at the grave…or at the very least a proper pyre to send her ashes sky-high. Leira’s throat and chest are already burning and the spasms created as she tries to stop herself from crying makes it worse. _Anything but tears…I won’t give them that satisfaction._ Sorrow can be turned to rage. She’s done that before as over the years the girl’s lost more people than she cares to remember. That’s why she’d switched to being alone…a plan that went down the drain the first night at the bar when Nina smiled so happily at the only other monster in town. A new sound startles Leira but it’s of her own making, because apparently, she is sobbing, and it makes her so damn angry and frustrated at everything. Sobs turn into screams of bloody murder, which technically isn’t completely wrong, and she doesn’t care that the brothers must be able to hear it. With nothing else left this is the only way to get rid of that fucking horrible pain inside.

The door opens so abruptly it almost seems like it’s been kicked in, and for a moment the sharp light from the hallway outside makes the men appear like nothing else than black silhouettes until one of them switches on the fluorescent lights. There are no charming smiles from Dean this time and Sam looks like he’d like nothing more than to dissect the monster they’ve caught in an effort to figure out what it is.

“You FUCKING sons of a BITCH!” Leira’s voice is hoarse as she screams at them, not caring anymore that they see her fangs.

What does it matter anyway? They know she’s not a demon, despite the trap she got stuck in. And speaking of traps: another one is holding her prisoner in an invisible cell, so even if she got free she wouldn’t be able to get out.

Infuriatingly, the guys stay calm, picking up a few tools and weapons before lining up just out of reach. Nodding at each other, Sam hands Dean a knife he’s just cleaned and the shorter of the brothers lets the sharp blade rest on the soft skin on his lower arm with only a few millimeters of cells protecting the veins. Veins full of delicious, warm blood. She’s so hungry, her body screaming for what the man is advertising, and when he surprises Leira by slashing a dep gash that immediately spills those precious crimson drops, there’s nothing else in the world that matters. She strains in the chair to get closer, baring the fangs and nearly whimpering as the metallic scent washes through her brain.

“You _are_ a bloodsucker. Interesting.” Sam points out curtly.

Licking her lips, there’s no saliva to wet them, nothing to sate the burning dryness. “Please…”  That little whimpered word seems to surprise them more than anything else about the woman so far. “Just a…a bit.” It’s wrong to beg them, but she’s so damn hungry and weak, her stomach is minutes from emptying itself of any normal food and her head is pounding, making the world appear to be spinning.

A single scoff from Dean is the only sign of humour. “You think we’re morons?” He wraps a cloth tightly around the gash.

“Hold on…” Sam has gotten an idea and he pulls his big brother with him.

She can hear their low voices from the other side of the closed door, but she’s too far out to keep track of the conversation, let alone make sense of what she does hear.

…

Something cold and wet hits her in the face, making Leira gasp. The Winchesters are back, and they even look a bit puzzled…did she pass out on them? _Pathetic._

“What’s wrong with you?” The taller has hunched down to get a proper look at the strange face and he almost looks worried.

“Hungry.” Her throat is on fire. “Been too long since I fed.”

Dean’s still holding a bucket and when he puts it down it’s with a clatter that could wake the dead or at the very least make Leira’s ears hurt. “When did you last feed?”

The more they know, the easier it’ll be for them to find out what she is and then all Hell’s lose…and Heaven too. That’s the thing. She’s not supposed to exist. She’s an abomination of the worst kind and no one wants her to live out of fear that the other side will find her and use her against them…or maybe it’s just out of shame. The girl’s existence is a black mark for both demons and angels alike.

“Hey!” Dean almost sounds sexy when he uses the tough voice. “Answer us!”

He’s pulled out a blade she’s heard stories about. It’s no angel blade, but it’s not normal either. It kills demons. It probably won’t kill Leira, but it’s not going to tickle either if he uses it. A movement makes her shift the focus to Sam and then to what he’s holding in his hands. A bag of donor blood.

“If you want it, you’ve gotta answer.” He doesn’t need to yell or threaten her.

 _When was the last time?_ “Last…last month I think.”

“Liar.”

Glaring over at Dean, she growls quietly. “Why the fuck…would I…lie?”

The light is dimming, and she can feel her weight shifting in the restraints as the head falls to the chest. _Not again._ Then something pokes past the prisoner’s lips before a cold, thick liquid is squirted into her mouth.

“Swallow.”

 _That’s what he said, heh._ Then her taste buds kick in. It might be cold, which isn’t the right way to serve it, but it’s blood nonetheless. Her lips surround the straw as she sucks hard, long pulls forcing the clean blood out of the container and into her, dousing the fire that’s been burning since earlier this evening. _Fuck yeah, that hits the spot._ It almost goes down the wrong pipe, making the woman cough slightly. Next second, the straw and bag are out of reach again.

“If you want more, then you have to answer our questions.” If the stories are true, then Dean was busy torturing in Hell for a while. There are a lot of impossible tall tales though. “You can start with what you are.”

She knows she has to bide her time somehow and sweeps a gaze across the part of the room she can see. Bricks covers the wall above the foot-high base in front of her where a table is wedged in between two columns, each adorned with thick chains secured thoroughly. Judging by the markings on the floor, there must have been a different piece of furniture once, but maybe they had moved that to the area behind her? To her right it’s just concrete with the typical horizontal stripes that is made by the boards used as the mold originally.

“No.” She’s finally retracted the fangs, allowing the single word to sound perfectly clear.

The silence fills the room, though the brothers can’t seriously have been expecting that she’d play ball after a sip of stored blood. Walking past a metal storage system and out of sight with the lumberjack shirt flapping, Leira can hear that Dean picks up something. Probably a new toy for torturing monsters. According to legends, Sam used to be much softer, not wanting to participate in the messy interrogations, but those years a long gone and right now he sure as hell doesn’t seem to be worried about what’s going to happen. Oddly, both men have perfectly calm heartrates. Wouldn’t the prospect of torturing someone, even a nightmare, be more…exhilarating?

“Well let’s have a look.” Dean sets her backpack and boots on the floor outside the circle of the trap. “Interesting thing…we found _this_ in your boots.” He holds up the angel blade.

“Get your hands off that!” It’s more a hiss than anything else, but her dad gave Leira this before he got killed.

Dean just smiles, proud that he’s found a soft spot. “It’s an angel blade.“ _Well duh._ “Why d’you have it?”

“Does it matter? You’re gonna end me anyways.”

“Yeah.” There’s no remorse in the short hunter’s words. “But at least we might make it quick if you talk.”

“Now who’s lying, sweetheart?” Somehow a smile is playing across her lips. Most humans would find that sight terrifying when combined with the long, pointy fangs. Not a hunter.

Pushing his long hair out of the face, Sam leans closer to his smaller big brother. “Dean…maybe we should ask Castiel or Crowley?”

Those names are all too familiar, making the hairs in the prisoner’s neck stand up. The King of Hell and the bloody angel who wanted to be God. Not exactly the company two hunters should keep (well, maybe the angel, but that crowd rarely bothers with humans), and it’s even creepier that the Winchesters think anyone from upstairs or downstairs would go as far as to help them.

“Sure…you call Crowley.” Dean’s balancing the triangular blade expertly.

“Seriously?! I did it last time too!”

 _Huh…so they aren’t exactly friendly with His Highness._ Leira can’t afford any side to find out about her, though. “Don’t!”

The word comes out too hurriedly, making the men stop and stare at the slender figure strapped in the chair.

“Then talk. You got caught in a trap, but the Holy Water didn’t burn you. You’ve got fangs and drink blood, but according to your own words the last time was a month ago.” Yeah, Sam is the bookish one of the two. It’s almost like he’s checking off a mental list. “And then there’s the angel blade.”

“She probably snatched that from someone else.”

They are met by a stonewall regardless of how many taunts and wrong assumptions they present, then Sam leaves the room, only pausing to give the other hunter a pat on the shoulder.

“If I don’t get her to talk, we call them.” Dean’s already fingering his knife lovingly.

For five minutes straight, he just stares at her, probably trying to figure out where to begin. No emotions are shining in his green eyes that apparently can get almost any girl to throw herself at his feet. _Hoes._ This guy is as handsome as he’s bad news which makes him way too much trouble than it’s worth.

“I don’t wanna do this.” He sighs, finally entering the circle of the demon trap. The only appropriate answer is a soft chuckle. “How about we start with something easy. Like your name.”

The last word is turned into more than a friendly suggestion as the blade slices into the skin, following the length of her left collarbone. Maybe he’d suspected the searing burn that the stories tell about when describing the knife, maybe just a cry of pain. This monster gives him nothing except unwavering eye contact. _Yeah, even that’s useful information to you, your sadistic piece of shit._

“You really want me to get serious?”

“Whatever you want, sweetheart.” It’s hard to keep the fangs in, but for now she’s in control of them and the rest of the body.

For the longest heartbeat, the blade is resting against her windpipe, then it’s moved swiftly to the abdomen, shredding the top and leaving a long laceration.

“You have to do better than that, Dean.”

“You know who I am.” It’s said with a certain amount of pride.

Smirking, Leira buys into his self-confidence. “Everyone knows ‘bout the Winchesters.” She smiles deviously, despite the returning throbbing in her teeth. This time it’s not hunger.

“Then you know how far I’ll go.” Just like before it’s nothing more than a fact he’s stating. Simple business.

Clenching the jaw, she nods.


	3. Good cop. Bad cop.

The world is drifting in and out of focus and it’s a good thing that the lights are out or Leira would probably have to watch them spin too. Her body’s aching all over and some parts feel like they’ve been skewered which coincidentally is exactly the truth. The hunger is back too, doing absolutely nothing good for her as the insides of her belly clench tightly, threatening to make the promise from earlier a reality. _How long?_ The question can apply for both the duration of the torture and the time she’s been unconscious this time.

…

Next time she comes to, the first thing the woman does is to throw up. There’s not much left so it’s mostly stomach acid, but that shit stings when it lands in the slow-healing wounds because she can’t tilt the head far enough away and the elongated fangs split the stream. Perhaps they’ve heard the retching and coughing. Perhaps it’s just coincidence. Either way she’s only been sitting in the nasty gunk for a few minutes before the door’s opened and the lights are switched on.

“Fucking hell!” For once, she agrees with a hunter on something. “Sammy!”

The heavy footsteps precede the tall man, and she’s vaguely aware that he swears too before the sounds fade away and the world goes black.

…

“Come on, drink.” The voice is oddly soothing and instinctively she does as it tells her to. “That’s it.”

The blood is a bit warmer this time, making it easier to digest, and it doesn’t take long before Leira’s aware that a large hand is cupping her head carefully. Then the flow of blood thins and stops, making the prisoner whimper slightly.

“Don’t worry, there’s more.” _Is that Sam?_ “Do you need normal food too? It looked like you’d eaten a proper meal.”

She nods weakly and the supporting hand disappears, letting her head tumble to the side. The hair is in her face, but she can make out the tall figure as it moves to a table and back. Ever so carefully, the hunter brushes the woman’s hair away and for a moment Leira’s mesmerized by the greyish mix in his eyes. _So much soul._ He asks her to open the mouth, holding out a spoon with what might be beef stroganoff. It’s not impressive food but it’s exactly what she needs, and she eats as fast as he lets her.

“Thank you…Sam.”

“You’re welcome.” It’s said by reflex, making the tower fidget with the spoon as if embarrassed by his response.

Looking down at herself, Leira’s happy to see that they let her keep the clothes on while rinsing off the vomit and blood. Sure, the wounds are still seeping slightly, mixing red into the wet fabrics, but it still feels better for the first time since arriving.

“We buried her, by the way.” Even with his back to the chair, Leira can tell that Sam’s apologizing somehow. “The vampire.”

“Nina?”

“Was that her name?” She nods, finding it hard to talk for a moment thanks to a lump in the throat. “She was your friend?”

“Kinda.” _Yes!_ He’s picked a handful of cotton wool and there’s a smell of disinfectant as he hunches on the floor, scrutinizing the wounds inflicted by his brother. “It’s better to use clean saltwater.” Leira comments dryly.

Again, their eyes meet. His brows are furrowed and there’s so much worry and empathy flowing from him, that she finds it hard to keep back the tears. Harsh words, pain, hatred, and lack of understanding would make it all so much easier because it’s what she’s learned to expect in a world where monsters are hunted by other monsters, humans, and angels alike. Leira hadn’t had much time with her parents, but they managed to teach their child a little bit about the world and what to expect…nowhere in their lessons had there been anything about compassion from a hunter. _Especially not a wickedly hot one._ The last thought makes her blink in surprise, breaking eye contact with Sam.

“Good to know. Thank you…?” The unspoken question is obvious.

“Leira.” _Idiot!_ At least there’s no last name to go by.

A small smile plays on his lips. “So not a single one of the cards are with your real name?”

“You know how it is…either you need a birth certificate or a brilliant forger.”

Silence descends, oddly comfortable after everything she’s been through, and she just watches as he cleans up the wounds the best he can (still using the stinging disinfectant). He’s done that before, that much is obvious. When he’s done, he packs away the things and tosses the used cotton in the trash before leaving.


	4. Admissions

She recognizes the man from the steps before he opens the door and turns on the glaring fluorescent lights. In the moment it takes for the tubes to warm up and reach the full brightness, he’s swaggered over to the table by the wall to survey the contents of Leira’s backpack.

“So. Leira.” Dean drawls. “How come you told my brother your name?”

“He asked nicely.” Her voice is perfectly calm. She knew he’d be back to pick up his work from last session, but this time the prisoner is fed, healed and stronger. “Maybe you should take a page outta that book.”

He sends her a glance before his hands close around the one thing she doesn’t want to talk about or be tortured with. There’s no doubt he’s used an angel blade before, it’s obvious just by the way he holds it, knowing exactly how it’s balanced.

“I can be nice.” The gleam in his eyes is far from friendly though. “Would you be so nice to explain how you got this, Leira?”

 _He won’t believe it anyways._ “My daddy gave it to me.” She doesn’t blink as he studies her for signs of lying. “Just ‘fore he got murdered, he gave it to me.”

“And let me guess…it was a hunter that ganked him and you’ve wanted revenge since?” The man chuckles humourlessly. A noncommitting shrug is the only answer he gets. “Alright, let’s pretend I believe that. How did _he_ get it?”

“You want me to believe there shouldn’t be angel blades unaccounted for?” Of course, there are, no one would be stupid enough to leave a blade lying around after killing its owner. And speaking of killing, why does these hunters always blame monster for everything bad that happens?! “Get your head outta your ass for once, hunter, not every freak of nature’s a monster like you.”

Dean Winchester is suddenly inside the trap, his grip on the blade so tight that his knuckles are white. “I’m not the monster here, bitch.”

“Outta the two of us, you’re the one killing and torturing, you sadistic fuck!”

The punch lands perfectly, dislocating her jaw for only the second time in her considerably long life and making the woman grunt in pain. The second time the fist comes flying, it lands right in her gut hard enough for Leira to double over if she had been able to. He gives her time to catch her breath, before yanking the bruising face upwards by the hair.

“You’re a bloodsucking monster that kills people just for a meal.”

“Am I?” The words are slurred as she can’t move the jaw. Each time she tries, it makes the pain worse. “I’m mo ‘an ‘oo’un’ed year ol’,” she grunts, “on’y killed onth.”

His brows are wrinkling, nearly obscuring his eyes, as he tries to decipher the meaning of the slurred words. “Hang on…” Grabbing her jaw with the right hand, the pain flares white and horrible when he realigns the bone, making the joints pop in the process. “Try again.”

As she tests the mobility, Leira notices that he’s placed the blade on the floor, freeing his hands.

“I said,” she breathes deeply, forcing the heartrate down, “I’m more than 200 years old, but I’ve only killed once.”

“Really?” Sarcasm is drenching the single word, making it sound full of cruel promises.

 _Just keep calm._ “Yeah. Before I learned to feed slowly.”

“So, you’ve been turning your victims instead. Yeah that’s not at all monster-like.” He’s pure malice as he picks up the blade, but something makes him reconsider and he returns it to the table, pulling out his beloved demon-killing knife instead. “I take your silence as agreement.”

“You should take it as stunned disbelief at how fucking _retarded_ you are.” _Bad thing to say!_ Now it’s out there, and she might as well stick with it. “If I did that, don’t you think you’d’ve found more like me?”

He considers it for a moment. “So, what d’you do? Enslave them to feed on ‘til they die naturally?”

“Fuck…you, you son of a bitch!” _Never!_ “Don’t you project your own _messed_ up fantasies onto me! Just ‘cause you get off tying innocent people up and torturing, doesn’t mean we _all_ do!”

She knows it the words have left her lips, that this is what tips him over the edge. With a snarl like any other monstrous predator he lunges at the woman, slamming the knife into her thigh where it buries itself into the bone even. It hurts like shit, making the fangs pop out, but there are worse things than taking a blade to the leg, and Leira manages to keep the jaw locked and eyes dry when she meets his furious gaze. Dean’s breathing hard, probably more from the anger than the physical exertion, but a dangerous smile is pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“Let’s see how tough you are.” It’s a promise, not a threat. Everyone knows that Dean keeps his promises.

The first yank only frees the tip of the knife from the femur, but it’s enough to make her breathe in sharply. It’s impossible to hold back the tears as he slowly wriggles the serrated blade free, doing his very best to hurt the prisoner as much as he can during the simple maneuver. But she doesn’t make a sound, and he almost looks impressed once he’s done.

“Is that all you got… _demon_?” Leira keeps her eyes on him as he plunges the knife through her hand. _This is gonna take a while._

…

Something cool and damp is on her face, and Leira immediately picks up the scent of soap, stew, and the clean herb-like smell of the nice brother. She manages to lift the head out of his tender hold and is rewarded by a tiny smile and a world of sadness and regret is shining at her from those kind eyes. _He’s a hunter, not a friend._ That’s something she will have to remember.

“Why’re you being nice to me?”

It’s nothing more than a whisper, but Sam hears it. “We don’t know what you are…maybe you’re not all bad.” He stands up, tossing the bloody cloth into a bowl.

“That’s not what your brother thinks.” Her words are followed by a pause, where the tall hunter finds what he needs in the first aid kit.

“He’d be open to the idea if you’d just tell us the truth.”

He’s actually kneeling in front of the bound woman, busy tending to the skewered hand. His long hair is pushed to one side of the face, making it hard to judge his facial expression, and an odd urge to trail her fingers through it until she can get a good look suddenly presents itself.

“I have, actually.”

He glances at her briefly, and she hates the feeling in the gut that it gives. “So…your dad gave you the blade?” She just nods, forcing him to look up again, so she can have another look at those pretty eyes. “Why?”

Maybe a fuzzy version of the truth won’t hurt as long as she doesn’t tell them what she and her parents are and were. And as long as it makes him stick around.

“I was…” Leira pauses to reconsider the words, “he knew we were being hunted by someone. They’d already gotten momma. One night, he woke me up, a hand clamped over my mouth to keep me quiet.” The memories are flashing through her brain. He hadn’t turned on the lights, but it was so obvious that he was scared. Her brave and strong dad, afraid. It had been the worst thing in the world to realize. “He gave me his blade and told me to run. That I had to keep quiet…not be seen and never ever look back again.”

Something warm is on her cheek and Leira realizes with a shock that she’s crying quietly. This is a story she’s never told anyone. Sam’s sitting perfectly still on the floor, only once glancing at her and looking away as soon as he realizes why she’s stopped. He’s already done bandaging the hand, but he’s holding it softly and it feels so damn comforting.

“I went back…‘bout three days later…” The hut had still been standing, but anything that could break was smashed to pieces. “I could still see the scorch marks where they’d murdered him.” There’d been no other signs of death, and she’d known they wouldn’t take him alive. “I was nine…”

Finally looking up, it’s almost as if the man understands the monster’s pain, maybe he’s lost people too, if hunters can have friends...apparently, they can have families. Sam’s only been kind to Leira since she woke up in this prison, but she still flinches when he reaches a hand towards her face, and he pauses long enough for the girl to relax a bit before he wipes away the tears.

“Can’t have been easy for you, Leira.” His fingers are calloused, yet gentle. “Why’d anyone want to do that?”

Shrugging, she knows that she can’t say much more without revealing more than good is. “Guess monsters will make up any reason to hurt someone…even if he or she’s innocent.” It’s a jab meant at Dean’s cruelty.

“Define innocent.”

“We didn’t hurt anyone, I swear! We just wanted to be left in peace.” _Just like I do now._ “Please…” suddenly her voice is tiny and fragile, “don’t let ‘im hurt me again.”

“Then tell us what you are.”

 _No._ She can’t. It would guarantee a death sentence if they or anyone else knew about her true nature, so she gives him nothing but silence until he leaves with a resigned sigh.


	5. At least it can't get worse

On a scale from one to ten, this situation is bad enough to warrant a solid twelve. Despite Leira’s best efforts (even once risking an attempt at flashing away), she can’t get out of the damned trap, let alone the chair. The leather straps would have been simple enough, but the manacles at the wrists and ankles are marked with a shitload of sigils, all meant to keep celestial and demonic beings alike stuck there for an eternity. Of course, things wouldn’t be all that bad if it was only the handsome, tall hunter that came to visit her…which probably is the worst way to think of any hunter, but damn, that guy wouldn’t have to run around her bed more than once before she dragged him on board. _Maybe that’s Stockholm Syndrome talking?_ It would have been the most rapid onset in history, though, so more likely it’s just a result of the renewed vigour since she’s fed. Cussing at herself silently, Leira tries to focus the thoughts on the problem at hand only to be interrupted by the sound of someone walking down the hall towards the room she’s kept in. _Dean._ He has a different swagger than his brother.

As suspected, it’s the older of the men that enters. His face’s set in a determined scowl, but a cocky grin replaces it as soon as he eyes something on the table. _Don’t let it be what I think._ If only she’d have someone to pray to, but that’s not how things work for her kind.

“Time to step up the game.”

He announces it with his back to the chair and its occupant, but the smell of whiskey on his breath is still easy to pick up. When he turns around, he’s holding the angel blade and this time he doesn’t look like someone who’ll exchange it for a lesser weapon.

“I thought you’d be pleased that I’d fezzed up.” It’s nothing short of a miracle that her voice doesn’t shake. “Or are you just pissed that you ain’t the one to make me talk?”

The punch breaks her nose, sending a cascade of hot blood down over her chin and chest and making the fangs snap into attention in a futile attempt to please the instinct to defend herself. Next moment, Dean’s grabbed a chunk of her long, messy hair to pull her face up to study those long canines. Through the blurry vision, Leira realizes that he’s still holding the blade in the hand and has turned it around to free a few fingers that he gingerly wraps around one of the teeth. There’s time enough to realize that the idea she’s got probably won’t work, that it will hurt the woman more than him…but there’s no chance in hell that she’ll let him think he has the upper hand. Biting down hard on his hand, she uses all the strength to surge forward, shoving the angel blade towards his body as hard as possible. Pain sears across her scalp as hair and skin is yanked out before he has time to let go and jump away. Through teary eyes and the fuzziness in the brain now that she’s got a taste of his blood, Leira can see the ruined t-shirt, but also that there’s only a tiny scratch along his ribs.

“You fucking asshole!”

Like the predator he is, he lunges at her, slamming the triangular blade into and through the right shoulder. It’s the worst pain she’s ever experienced as the metal slices through both body and soul, making white light spill out back and front and coaxing the fear with it to the surface. She can’t hear her own scream, but she feels it clawing her throat to shreds before a new wave of agony rushes over her, stealing the breath and sound completely as the light can shine unhindered while the body fights to patch up the hole using too much of the energy she’d gotten back from the blood.

Dean has pulled the weapon out. “What the fuck.”

Pushing herself up against the backrest, Leira sees the hunter rush out as he calls for his brother, not even bothering to close the door after him. _Now._ It might be futile, but she won’t go down without a fight. The first time the prisoner throws herself backwards, nothing happens, but after a few attempts, she can feel the metal keeping the chair onto the floor wiggle and scrape against the concrete. The manacles are chafing the wrists and ankles, making her bleed, but it doesn’t matter as long as she can get the chair free…and nothing hurts as bad as what she just went through.

By the time the first crack in the floor shows, the two men return.

“Oh, no you don’t, cunt.” Dean’s at her straight away, the tip of her own weapon resting on her sternum. With the other hand, he pulls the dirty leather jacket that she still is wearing aside to get a proper look at the shoulder only to see that the wound is nearly closed.

Where he’s pissed off, Sam’s confused instead. “Dean…what’s going on?”

“This one’s nothing like we’ve dealt with before. Look.”

The metal flashes quickly, leaving an excruciating gash across her face (somehow not gouging out an eye), and Leira’s blinded by her own light and tears which are only made more humiliating by the scream. She can’t see them anymore, but she knows they’re both shocked.

“We need Cas.” Sam agrees with his brother.

Finally staring at them with eyes wide open, the girl screams for them not to call the angel. That she’ll talk, Tell them anything. But it’s too late. She knows the moment the soft flutter appears out of nowhere that the rugged man with the trench coat has wings although she’s too messed up to see the shimmer of them in the air. Still…he’s an angel alright: the grace is showing like a hailing beacon in the night.

“Are you alright?” The deep voice is addressing Dean, concern filling the face of Castiel the Angel of the Lord as he spots the bleeding hand.

“She bit me, but so far so good.”

The angel turns to look at the being in the chair, noticing first the light from the already closing gash across her face, then the fangs. _You don’t know._ Somehow, most monsters have come to believe that the feathered dickheads upstairs know everything about anything they might have to kill. Demons certainly try to, and because they get snuffed faster than Ursain Bolt does the 100-meter dash, they keep an extensive library with volumes upon volumes of bestiaries. Leira had snuck into Hell once, during an unstable period, to have a look and maybe find out more about her kind. Nothing. If anything was written down, then it must have been in a private collection.

The brothers are filling the angel in on what they know, which isn’t much, and Castiel’s brows crawl further and further down over his eyes as they speak. Clearly, he doesn’t like what he’s hearing. Fangs, some demon weaknesses, blood-hunger, light like grace. Nothing makes sense to the three standing there, discussing her as if she’s nothing but an animal. _I’m less to them._

“What will happen to Dean?” Sam’s finally addressing Leira directly.

She shrugs. “If he cleans it and maybe stitches it up…nothing happens.”

They don’t seem to believe it. _Their loss._ Her own growing concern is a lot more short-sighted, as she can feel how little energy is left inside after closing both wounds from the blade. One more stab with that thing and she’d drink anything passing her way.

“Who created you?” Castiel has stepped closer, soundlessly slipping out his own blade from somewhere in the recesses of his coat.

She doesn’t take her eyes of the damned weapon. “I was conceived and born the same way humans are.”

“Then who are your…parents?” The word doesn’t sit right with the angel.

Glaring at the celestial creature, Leira gets the feeling that he can be more ruthless than Dean. But the answer is still: “That’s none of your damn business, halo-boy.”

It’s not the hand with the blade that he raises to the prisoner’s forehead, just an empty palm with impossible powers that she’s heard bad stories about. She can’t get away from it, no matter how much she struggles, and next moment there’s nothing but white light invading her, keeping the woman immobile as it plucks its way through the memories and thoughts. It finds everything she wanted to keep secret. When the presence fades away, she’s sobbing uncontrollably.

“Impossible.” The hunters are staring at Castiel, waiting for him to explain. “It can’t be true. I must confer with my brothers and sisters…”

“No!” She’d have thrown herself onto the ground before the angel if she could at all. “Please. I beg you. Don’t let them know about me.”

There’s no remorse in Castiel’s gaze, no kindness like Sam possesses. “If what you know about yourself is true, then you’re an abomination.”

“What I am…it’s not my fault. I’ve tried to be good. Please.”

The good thing is that the angel doesn’t flutter his feathered ass away. Bad thing is, that now she needs to make sure to tell the best damned story of her life in the hopes of them showing mercy.


	6. Abomination 101

Outside the circle are three of the most dangerous killers Leira could ever have run into and two of them (possibly the two worst) are holding on tightly to angel blades. Sam on the other hand is trying to soften the tension by crouching before the trapped girl.

“Okay, Leira. How ‘bout you start explaining things from the beginning?”

“It’s a long story…”

Dean scoffs angrily. “Yeah, well you’re not going anywhere. Start yapping.” It earns him a reprimanding glance from his little brother.

“Fine.” Looking down, Leira’s met by kind grey eyes and she breathes deeply before beginning. “I knew, since I was very little, that my parents were as different as night and day, but even if they’d the most impressive shouting matches there’s no doubt how much they cared ‘bout each other. I also knew…we were running from something or someone, but it wasn’t until I was a bit older that it began to dawn on me why. They weren’t supposed to be together, not supposed to…love each other, and that’s why they’re being hunted.” Leira breathes deeply to stay in control of her voice.

“The thing is…I don’t _remember_ them doing anything wrong. Sure, mom would occasionally take out a pimp or rapist for instance, leaving my dad to clean up the mess most of the time. He didn’t like killing…not like she did, at least. Sometimes they argued ‘bout it, and I remember one night where momma had accused him of being a poofy chicken…even if it made them both laugh for a moment, he promised that if he had to then he’d do _anything_ to protect us.

“He got his chance not long after. I think…I must’ve been five years old. Mom’s gone that night and dad’s tucking me into bed when we sensed them arriving, so he told me to hide inside the cottage and not come out unless _he_ said ‘twas safe…then he went out to meet them. They were like mom. You know the darkness inside that’s not soft and warm, but the cold, jagged kind that makes you feel alone and would sound like nails on a chalkboard. That’s the first time I saw him fight. The blade was like an extension of him, slicing through the air like lightning and none of them got a blow in before they were dead. I could smell the burning of what once was their souls all the way inside, but I’ve just seen my daddy be a hero and save me, so I was ready to come out of hiding. That’s when the next group flashed in, wings fluttering and grace shining…just like dad.”

The woman can’t make herself look at the men listening, but she can sense the confusion from the humans and the seething hatred from the seraphim. Now they know what she is, whatever the term for it might be. _Abomination._ Pushing the thought away, Leira carries on telling the story. Her story.

“They’re just talking at first, trying to convince dad to come home…to give up mom. They’re unbearably naïve. All mom and dad wanted was to live their own lives, they wouldn’t have bothered anyone unless forced to and dad _tried_ to make the others understand that. Some angels have their halos screwed on too tight…or maybe they didn’t know that it wasn’t just about mom and dad anymore. When the first one pulled out his blade, dad tried to only defend himself first, ‘til one of them tried to get closer to the cottage. It made all the wards and seals shine up and I remember thinking it was beautiful, but it made dad go ballistic. The ones that he didn’t kill instantly…he went from one to the other, softly stroking their foreheads or cheeks before finishing it. He’s crying the whole time.

“After that, when mom had gotten home, and we were running, trying to find a new place to hide, they started to explain that no one was _ever_ allowed to find out about my true nature. It was bad enough that an angel and demon had abandoned their kind to be together…but if anyone found out that they had a kid...for once the two sides might even team up to eradicate us. Me.

“It was doable for a while, then my powers started developing. It was erratic in the beginning, triggered by the weirdest things…but one sure-fire way was through fear or anger. It’s my fault mom died. Some angel nearby must have sensed the surge of one of my outbursts and he came looking for us. I don’t know his name, but he was powerful and his blade was an actual sword.”

The mental image of her mother’s struggle shuts the prisoner up. Mom had been amazing, never once showing pain or telling the bastard what he wanted to hear. In Leira’s memories, she was always the loving mother, who (oddly for a demon) loved to bake and sing almost as much as she liked to make bad humans suffer. It doesn’t matter anymore that the thoughts make the prisoner cry silently, and in some way, it feels good to finally be able to tell someone all of this.

“Dad came and found me much later. I’d curled up in mom’s arms and he’s later said I was kicking and biting when he tried to carry me away. Actually, that’s when my fangs first showed up. For years, he tried to teach me how to balance the different sides of me. Heaven and Hell. It didn’t seem important then, but at least he kept me from killing humans even when I was feeding.” He’d been repulsed by the sight of his daughter drinking the warm blood. _Who could blame him?_

“Some of our hunters stopped following us after mom got murdered. The only demons dumb enough to come were the ones thinking it would be a great way to prove themselves by killing a fallen angel. They never got a chance to learn from their mistakes…instead they were excellent training material as dad started teaching me how to fight and defend myself. Just in time too.”

Recounting the story, she’d told Sam of the last time she saw her dad, Leira wishes the kind hunter would hold her hand like he’d done then. She’s so close to him that his heat is reaching her legs. _Get your head straight. He was only kind to get the information he needed._ Steeling herself, she begins on the last part.

“I spent many years living in the shadows, stealing from those who had more and avoiding those that were a threat to me. Eventually…I made it across the Atlantic and I’ve been blending in all sorts of places, making sure not to draw attention to myself from the wrong kind and moving once people started wondering about me. For a while, I actually tried having friends…if you can call it that when you’re not able to tell them the truth, but that didn’t work out, so I stopped. Nina was the first exception in 50 years.” Leira’s hands have started to shake, because she knows what’s about to happen. “At least I won’t make that mistake again…” _Not now that you’ll kill me._

The silence is worse than any insults they could’ve thrown at her. _It’s okay. It doesn’t matter now._ The words only comfort the woman partially, as she slowly submits to the heavy, drained feeling before the blood hunger really sets in, the first symptom already making her hands quiver.


	7. Pending

“So that’s it? We’re just gonna believe her?” Dean’s staring from his two friends to the slumped figure in the chair and back in disbelief.

“She believes that it is the truth.” Castiel gravelly answers. Leira’s already come to accept that he doesn’t joke or bullshit. “It should be possible to put at least part of the claim to the test.”

The angel demands to know the names of her parents, but she doesn’t know because they only ever told her to call them mom and dad…and they’d never used each other’s names around their own child. It was probably for safety, like some messed up way of protecting her and making it harder to track them. Maybe they even changed names each time they moved to a new place, but as a child, she never thought of asking and now it’s much too late: she’ll die without really knowing who they were. The realization of that makes her eyes sting. Finding she can’t face the hunters and the angel, Leira closes her eyes hoping they’ll just go away, but the two of them keep discussing ways to test her and the story without giving a damn that she’s sitting right there. Another issue arises halfway into the debate: what can someone like her do?

The older hunter takes that issue lightly. “I don’t care as long as we can end her.”

“Dean!” For the first time since hearing the monster’s story, Sam speaks up. His voice is full of something she can’t quite identify, but it makes her warm inside. “Guys, maybe this is a conversation we should have somewhere else?”

She can hear both the feathered and the shorthaired bastards head towards the door where they stop.

“Sammy?” It’s almost an order.

Leira hears the handsome brother sigh, but he doesn’t move yet. “I’ll be right there. Go ahead.”

Maybe they shrug, maybe they stare at him to see if he’s lost his mind. Either way, they eventually walk out and close the door behind them. The room is silent for a long time. So long, in fact, that it begins to feel awkward and Leira starts to entertain the idea that maybe he’s fallen asleep. Blinking tears away, she looks around for him, nearly shitting herself as he somehow, quiet as a cat, has moved to sit right in front of her on the floor. His legs are crossed, and Sam’s resting his elbows on the knees and chin on his hands as he studies her face. _Why does he have to look so genuinely concerned?_ Biting her lip, she scrunches the nose as she tries to find any logical explanation, but only comes up dry.

“What?” She can hear how dry and cracked her voice is.

He looks away sheepishly for second. “The thing your dad said…” he glances up at Leira and she notices a slight twitch in one of his hands as if he wanted to move it but then stopped himself, “about balance between your two sides.”

“What ‘bout it?”

“I mean…” he’s at loss for words, “…the light…that’s your grace, right?”

 _Is it?_ “That might be too kind a word for it.” Shrugging, she admits to not being sure. “It doesn’t feel like what the angels have.”

Frowning, he lets the silence descend again, never taking his eyes off the tied-up girl. It’s a calculative stare, but not that of a predator like Dean’s had been. No, Sam’s trying to figure out a puzzle by analyzing each piece at a time and laying it out in a system to easier see where they belong. Leira’s that puzzle.

“You look like shit.”

His sudden declaration startles her. “Well thank you.” He’s probably right though, because she’s bloodied, scared (even if it’s just temporarily), and shaking with hunger. Already the fangs are beginning to throb painfully. “I’m sure you’d be pretty as a flower if you’d been stabbed through soul and body.”

He smiles. He actually, genuinely smiles at the words, accepting the pretty perfect point of hers. “What do you need to get better?”

“Blood.”

He nods before shoving off of the floor, the muscles visible in his lower arms rolling like thick ropes under the tan skin, and as he walks to the corner she finds herself staring at a tight butt rather than his goal. That is until he opens a plastic cooler and pulls out a bag of donor blood.

“Any specific type?”

A short giggle breaks free from Leira’s lips, startling her as much as him. “No, as long as it’s given freely.”

First, he makes a hole with a knife, then he jabs a straw into the container before kneeling on the floor so close that his abs brush against her knee when he leans in to hold the drink close enough for the monster to reach. A wrong heat rushes through her, pooling somewhere low in her gut, and it refuses to go away when he doesn’t break eye contact even though she’s sucking hungrily, draining everything he offers.

“Why does it matter if it’s given freely? Personal principle?” Her leg feels cold when he moves away to discard the empty container.

“Yes and no.” Leira licks the lips to ensure nothing is wasted, almost content after the soothing meal. “I don’t want to hurt people, believe it or not…but it also tastes better that way. Sweeter. Nina is –“ she breaks off as reality hits again. “Nina _was_ pretty bright about that, but like all vampires she’d get lost in the hunt. Too animal, y’know.”

Sam’s back, but with more distance between them now. “That’s why they drain their victims too.” She nods. Vampires lose most of what made them human when they are turned. “So, she taught you blood given voluntarily’s the best.” He sums up.

“Not _the_ best…” She’s watching him from under hooded lids, a different need growing inside her now and getting stronger with the thought of what makes the best so good. “The best’s blood from someone…happy. Health makes a difference too, of course, yours would be delicious, but it would get better if we fucked first and I let you cum just before I started feeding.” She can’t help but squirm in the seat, trying to find a way to relieve some of the frustration pooling between the legs. “ _That_ beats everything. Gets you off again as it tastes better than anything you could ever have. Better than melons or mango. Better than a cold drink on a warm summer day.”

Looking at the creature before him, the words he’s lapping up so eagerly only slowly computing in his brain, resulting in his perfect mouth being shaped in a small _O_ as if he’d suddenly be happy turning invisible or be swallowed by the ground to avoid facing the bound woman. Getting to his feet with a jerk, he scrambles towards the door, muttering pathetic apologies about ‘having to go’ and ‘the others needing him’, even forgetting to turn off the light in the hurry. _So much for the company._


	8. Renewed investigations

There are nearly 40 rows of bricks above the concrete base on the wall in front of Leira. Behind the densely woven metal screening, the storage units seem to have five or six shelves each with the contents at the very top being visible over the fence-thingy. She’s been stealing looks at the cell and its interior whenever she could, but now she’s had plenty of time to study it. There are five lamps in this part of the room, four in the other. She sighs, looking around for some way to entertain herself.

After Sam had run off, she’d settled down as well as she could to get some rest and possibly clear her head a bit. Problem was, when she woke up she was still trapped in a chair with cuffs for anything angelic and demonic inside a demon’s trap in a place with an angel and two hunters. But, the woman reminds herself for the 100th time, only two seem delightedly hellbent on killing her. Sam…well if he wants her dead, at least he’s being decent about it.

She has no way of telling the time with any accuracy, but it can’t have been more than a couple of hours, and she’s wondering why it’s taking the killers so long to reach a decision. Possibly, they’ve finally understood that they might get in trouble for having found her and not killed her before she could talk. But these guys they don’t back down from a challenge and meeting a creature like her is bound to cause them some tactical problems. _They’ll want to know more._ Leira smiles softly at their need to feel in control. The thing is, all three of them are supposed to know everything there is to know about monsters, demons, and angels…and yet here she is, brand spanking new and they’re afraid she’s not the only one. And, it follows, if there’re more then they need to know how to hunt them down.

Somewhere inside the wall the waterpipes gurgle, proving to the prisoner that they haven’t left her completely alone. It also makes her long for a good warm shower. She’d been delighted when humans had been given the design for mechanical engineering that could provide each house with hot running water, and since then it’d only been topped by electricity and the internet. Adopting a positive outlook at things, she makes a list of things to do as soon as she’s free.

  1. Find her laptop and start up the music.
  2. Listen to music while showering until all the hot water is used.
  3. …hmmm…



Leira considers her options, her mind aimlessly bumbling into the image of a tall, longhaired male before she frustrated scolds her brain for the carelessness. Even if she’s entertaining the impossible there’s no way she’ll put _that_ on the list, so she reverts to an old habit of hers to staunch the flow. Carefully thinking back, she hums the melody of a song she once knew, trying to reconstruct the lyrics.

…

The lock clicks, shutting Leira up efficiently even though she curses herself for singing so loudly that she didn’t hear the steps approaching her prison. When the door swings up, both humans are looking at her puzzled.

“What was that?” Dean’s voice is flat, making it impossible to gage his underlying mood.

A slight blush is crawling up her cheeks, but she tries to play it cool. “Just a cover of a Kansas-song.” She shrugs. “I got bored waiting for you guys to come back. Where’s Feathers?”

“Cas?” Dean’s keeping a safe distance between him and the girl. “He’ll be here in a minute.”

 _That could mean anything._ “Well if he’s popped upstairs, then I hope for his sake that he’s keeping all questions hypothetical.”

“Or what? You’ll kill him?!” The older hunter snorts out a laugh. “Yeah, good luck with _that_!”

Glaring at him, Leira waits until he’s done having his fun. “Not me. How do angels think about Nephilim and their parents?” She doesn’t wait for an answer before continuing. “Not so kindly and that goes for anyone connected to them. Now…Nephilim aren’t half as hated as my kind must be, so if _they_ find out that your dear, winged boyfriend has met one and decided not to smite it on sight…?”

The brothers exchange worried glances, following her logic all too well, and too preoccupied to argue with her about Cas’s chances in general. He might be a Seraphim, but that’s no guarantee of seniority in a matter that goes against the angelic principles. Some might say the rules dictated in Heaven are virtuous…not Leira though: after a couple million years, it might be time to update them.

“Either way, if he does come back I’m fairly sure it’ll be empty handed.”

“We’ll see.” At least Sam’s not bothering staying outside the circle and she can smell he’s been drinking coffee. “Speaking of research…what, erm, I mean…would you mind –“

“Oh, for CHRIST sake!” All stories support the theory that Dean doesn’t have a whole lot of patience which fits well with his sudden interruption. “What’s the password to your laptop?”

There’s not a lot on there, she mainly uses it to scope out places to lie low, listen to music, and for monitoring any possible threats. Without friends or stable contacts to Heaven and Hell, she’s had to rely on the news and social media to spot patterns that might indicate someone or something is close to her. But she’s never kept anything really personal on the machine in case it fell in the wrong hands. Like now.

“Sure. If you’ll say what you are looking for.” She smiles innocently. The answer’s as obvious as she thought. “It’s spelled…R-I-T, new word, Z-I-E-N.”

“Rit Zien?” The younger hunter pronounces it perfectly. “That’s Enochian.”

“I told you my daddy was an angel.” She reminds him. “My mom used to call him that when he’d been off to help some poor, sick human. That was sorta his thing.”

The silence in the modern dungeon is oppressing as the brothers stare from her to each other, not for the first time since her arrival. But for once they look like they know something she doesn’t. Enochian isn’t taught to angels, it’s just there from the moment they are popped into existence, and even though Leira isn’t a true angel it’s been much the same for her except it’s almost like the information is fuzzy and she has to concentrate to remember. Rit Zien means, to the best of her knowledge, ‘hands of mercy’. She’d never questioned if there had been a hidden meaning in her mother’s epithet, because it was always dad that was helping strangers who’d gotten sick, or healing mom when she’d gotten injured in battle. His hands were kind and provided a safety she didn’t see outside the family.

“Yeah,” Sam’s words shake her out of her trip down memory lane, “but you didn’t say what rank. We thought he was just a random, low-level angel, but he’s a…medic of sorts. They’re special and –“

“Sammy!” Obviously, Dean doesn’t believe in sharing knowledge. “And you,” he points accusingly at the woman, “why’re you just telling us the password? What’re you up to?”

Leira can’t help but roll her eyes at the obnoxious hunter, although she probably would have wondered the same if the roles had been reversed. “Sheesh, maybe ‘cause there’s nothing _on_ there? D’you think I’m that _stupid_ that I’d risk assholes like you getting their hands on it? I ‘sume you’ve already seen it’s the same with my notebooks.”

The old journals don’t contain writing just sketches of people, plants, and the odd building here and there. It might be of interest to a historian to leaf through the pages as some of the drawings date back more than a hundred years. Despite her words, Sam and Dean are still determined to try everything and the youngest one leaves to search through the pc’s contents. This leaves Leira glaring up at a face adorned with one elevated brow and oozing with contempt.

“So, your old man was a Rit Zien?” The low growl holds a million threats, and Dean’s already reaching for the angel blade. “I wonder what else you kept from us.”

“Would you believe me if I said, I didn’t know?”

“Nope.”

Utilizing the latest questioning-technique, Dean Winchester does his best to get the answers he so desperately wants, continuing much longer than before. He never falters or shows any kind of remorse because this is his job. Saving people. Hunting things. No one can do that successfully and live to tell the tale if they’re soft, and even though she hates the bastard with every fiber in her being, Leira can’t help but be impressed and she almost wishes she had something to tell him.

“P-plea-se…” Blood is dribbling out of her mouth as she tries to get a look at the hunter. “I wa–“ a cough interrupts her, making it feel like her body not only is on fire, but is being ripped apart too, “I wan’ to know…’oo. Wenth ‘o ‘ell…’o look in li’rary…”

Dean’s lets Leira take her time to stutter through the story of sneaking into Hell to try to learn something about what she is. When she’s finally finished, he rests against the table while considering the options while carefully cleaning the blade of any blood.

“Private collection, you say?” The question is not meant for her. “A collection which the King of Hell would own…”

 _Nonono!_ “Don’ let ‘im know.”

But it’s too late: Dean’s already leaving her alone in the prison once more.


	9. Verdict

The various wounds have only been healing slowly, allowing the light to illuminate the room faintly long after she’s been left alone. It feels to Leira like she’s been there days or weeks, but either way, it’s longer than she had expected when she first woke up to be a prisoner at the mercy of the Winchester brothers. _Just let it all go away._ The last sliver of light from her is finally extinguished by the sealing skin, superficially at least. Everything hurts, and because of the automatic attempts at healing each wound she’s starving. Running a dry tongue across her fangs and lips, she can taste the dried blood. _Oh God, just let me die._ God doesn’t answer her…why should he?

Several people are walking down the corridor and the low, gravelly voice of Castiel seems to be aimed at someone new which (all things considered) doesn’t bode well for Leira. Her eyes are glued to the door by the time the people on the other side come to a halt.

“Tadaaa.”

Dean cheers unamused as he pushes the door open to reveal the group with a stocky, short man in front. His hairline’s receding and the stubbles are several days old which would have made him look disheveled if it hadn’t been for the impeccable, black suit and bloodred tie, all of which only holds Leira’s attention for a second, because she knows who this is. He looked different when she last saw him, though.

“The Winchesters _do_ have a full set,” she coos between the throbbing fangs, “long time no see, Crowley.”

The King of Hell is squinting at her, trying to jerk some long-forgotten memory. “I’m sorry, have we met before?” _A hint of Scottish accent?_

They haven’t, but he had been the one to interrupt her search in the demonic library simply by stumbling in even though all demons were supposed to be squabbling for power. Crowley had looked different back then, but then again: his kind switch vessels more often than a model switches outfits.

So, there she’s sitting like an antique to be studied by an angel, a hunter, and a demon, the latter keeping a safe distance to the edge of the trap to avoid any unnecessary risks. Sam on the other hand has already hurried to the cooler to find a fresh bag for her, making Leira’s attention falter.

“Hey!” The back of a hand impacts sharply with her cheek and she looks up at Dean with hatred and surprise. “Cas asked you something.”

Blowing the wild hair out of her face, the woman pins the angel down with a stare.

“How did you know I wouldn’t find anything about you or your kind in Heaven?” Never has an angel had his pride wounded this much.

Her first attempt to answer results in nothing more than a dry croak, spurring Sam to finally let her have a sip to drink. “Thank you.” Leira whispers to him alone as he pulls away. Looking back at the other three, she smiles innocently. “Would angels keep records of their own greatest sins? Hell didn’t have anything when I checked the records available there so why would the Heavenly Chickencoop?”

A wicked grin makes Crowley’s face appear nearly humane. “Been snooping around, have you?” He’s not going to let Castiel off the hook on that insult. “You’re right, little half-breed, we’ve got nothing downstairs on you either. I even checked my private collection.”

“Nothing?!” Both hunters and angel alike have apparently staked their hopes on it, and Dean’s clenching his hands tightly.

“Nada.” But the demon’s smile is still stuck. “Except perhaps the mother’s name.” Leira’s head whips around so fast that there’s an audible crack from the neck. “ _That_ made you pay attention. Which colour eyes did your ‘mommy dearest’ have?”

The answer comes promptly. “Green.” Emerald green, not like those of Dean, but luminescent almost.

“Thought so.”

Silence falls while Crowley apparently finds it more interesting to enjoy the interior design and choice of decoration before facing his odd company. “So…are you going to let me see her tricks? All I’ve seen are fangs.” Shrugging, Castiel pulls out his blade and heads towards the chair, only to be stopped by the King of Hell. “Perhaps we’ll start with something less…messy?” He nods at the artwork on the floor.

“You want to free her?” _And angels are supposed to be intelligent, hah!_

Eventually, Crowley manages to convince the others that Leira can be freed from the chair, seeing as she should be unable to escape the perimeter marked on the floor. With a slight frown, the youngest in the room kneels to unlock the manacles and untie the straps and, as a last detail, he hands over the already opened bag of blood to her. As he does, their fingers touch ever so lightly, making goosebumps spread up Leira’s arm. They allow her to finish the drink, they even wait for her as she rubs some life into her legs. Then, finally, she gets to her feet to screaming protests of the rest of the body.

Both Castiel and Dean have drawn their weapons. _That’s my blade, you piece of shit hunter._ Leira wants it back so badly, but she needs to play nice for now because she can’t get to it unharmed…and even if she could, she wouldn’t be able to get out of this place, so she just walks to the edge of the circle and stops when she feels the resistance created by the sigils.

“Happy?” Her smile’s tiny. Unthreatening. “What was my mother’s name, your majesty?”

Like any demon, Crowley has a big ego that needs to be stroked. “Ela.” He’s enjoying being important. “But no…I’m not happy.”

As if on cue, Dean and Castiel lash out towards the girl with the blades and like any sane person would, she jumps back only to hit the invisible wall and slide to the ground. As the hunter advances, not caring that he’s in the trap, she scrambles to get away from the damned holy weapon.

“No! Please don’t!”

But her prayers go unheeded and the blade slashes across her lower arm as Leira tries to shield herself against the attack. Already, Dean’s advancing again. _Damn you!_ Desperation and fear takes a new approach to the situation, propelling her towards the attacker instead. In a series of fast moves, she manages to topple him onto the hard, cold floor and somehow twist the weapon to face himself even though he still is the one to hold it. As she straddles him, the former victim is finally in control and without using her full strength, Leira keeps pushing until the tip is at his throat while the bright light from her wound blinds him.

“Stop.” The cold metal of Castiel’s weapon has found the half breed’s tender spot where the jugular runs beneath. “Drop it and let him go.”

 _Stop, drop and roll._ “I’m technically not holding the blade…and I already dropped him…so I’m just gonna get off reeeaal slow h-”

“Well that’s a first.” The guy on the ground smirks.

Sam and Crowley groan at Dean’s sassy comment and Leira rolls her eyes.

“I…don’t get it.”

Confused or not, the angel is still poking a deadly weapon at the girl as she carefully crawls away from the downed hunter. “I’m sure he’ll explain it to you later, halo-boy.”

Reaching down, she offers Dean a hand to get up which he refuses with a puzzled look to the others. Once he’s back on his feet and safely outside the trap, he brushes the invisible dirt off his clothes.

Water’s trickling in the hidden pipes, the heartbeats are slowing down once more, but there are no other sounds than that. _Yeah…I just blew it._ If there could have been any chance for Leira of getting them to believe she’s not the monster they see, then it’s gone down the drain now. Had it been in self-defence? Abso-fucking-lutely! But that won’t matter to them. Feeling the defeat, she sits back down on the chair, face in hands to avoid looking at them. And still no one speaks for a solid five minutes.

Finally, Crowley breaks the silence: “Well…that’s something you don’t see often.”

Someone must have gestured for them to leave, because the sound of footsteps trace towards the door.

“Sam?” Leira can’t believe her own ears when she calls out for him.

He mumbles to the others that he’ll be ok, and they leave the room without him. A new hesitation is evident when he gingerly positions himself against the wall facing her. “What is it?”

There’s no trace of resentment and it spurs the captive on. “I want t-“ _No, that’s not right._ “I… _need_ you to promise me something.”

“What?”

 _Not ‘why’?_ Startled by the answer, Leira finally faces him. “We both know what the verdict will be.”

Their eyes have locked and there’s no doubt he understands what she’s getting at. _Is he ashamed? Sad? What is that? _She wishes, she could have met him in another life, that everything could have been different. Better. She’d promised herself not to show any emotions, but as her lip starts to quiver, she realizes that Sam would have known anyways.

“Please. Can you be the one to…do it?” Tears are filling her eyes now, making her break eye contact as she angrily wipes them away, making sure to keep her head down. “Please…I don’t want…make it quick, ‘kay?”

Something warm but firm touches her chin, gripping it gently to lift her face up. With tender strokes one of the most lethal hunters to walk the earth brushes away stray hairs and salty water, before pulling her into an unexpected embrace. Her mind boggles at the stupidity and overwhelming need to just hold on to this man as the last bit of her composure crumbles. _Crap._ _Stop crying!_ The words are on repeat in her head, but Leira remains a blubbering mess for several minutes, all while Sam strokes her back and hair and mumbles soothing nonsense until she’s calmed down.

“Leira.” Her cheeks are cupped in his warm, oversized hands. “I promise you, I won’t let you down.”

A weak smile’s the only answer she can muster. Then he hurries away, leaving her behind and curled up tightly in the chair.

…

She’s done her best to recompose herself, detangle the mess her hair has become and scrub off as much blood and dirt as possible before the odd group returns to the prison, all of them lining up to face the abomination in the chair.

“We’ve come to a decision.” Castiel announces somberly.

Leira just nods, eyes glued to Sam who actually looks kind of sad when he takes the angel blade from his brother. _My own blade…now that’s irony._ The others are ready to assist him from the moment he steps into the trap, but she doesn’t fight him as he rests the silvered tip at the skin covering her heart. His free hand finds her shoulder and gives it a tiny squeeze.

“Thank you.” Leira whispers, unable to keep her eyes open.

“I’m sorry.” He answers.

For a few seconds, there’s pain.


	10. Post Mortem

Blinking after the sharp burst of light that had flooded the room, everyone takes in the scene. The limp body in the chair with her head resting against Sam’s sternum, and the bleached areas on walls and floors that only are interrupted by the stark shadows by anything or anyone in the way. There’s an odd scent of something burned that no one seems able to identify even if they’ve smelled it before.

“Weird…” Sam ignores his brother’s words as he pulls the angel blade free. “I’d have thought she’d’ve struggle.”

“What good would that’ve done, Dean?” _This’s wrong._ “She knew what was coming…just wanted it to be quick.”

He makes sure to clean every last bit of blood off the blade before turning to face the other three. Except he’s looking at five people, and it makes him stop dead in his tracks.

“Thing is,” one of the newcomers begins calmly while he takes in the scene, “it didn’t have to end like that.”

Surprised shouts and curses fill the room as the angel, the hunter, and the King of Hell turn towards the sound. They are ready to fight, but just like Sam they’re stumped by the sight of who’s facing them. A man and a woman have materialized inside the Bunker, which for starters shouldn’t be possible. Secondly, the last time anyone (namely, Dean) had seen the pair, they’d announced that they were going to leave for some family time, yet there they are.

“Ch-Chuck!” Dean hastily lowers his knife that he had drawn when Sam entered the trap. “And hrm…Amara.”

God’s sister smiles deviously, giggling slightly at the sight of the demon who’s decided that this is the opportune moment to back away slowly. “It’s okay, Crowley,” her words make him stop. “We’re not here for you.”

“Stand up, Castiel.” Chuck offers the awestruck angel a hand up from the hard concrete where he’s kneeling. Then he turns to face all of them. “I gotta admit…I’m a bit disappointed, guys.” The four shuffle, heads hanging slightly without knowing what to say. “You of all should know that a monster isn’t just decided by the circumstances of its creation.”

Amara nods, a crooked smile gliding across her face as she looks unwavering at Dean. “All of you have done things that, according to the code you just enforced, should’ve earned you an execution…at least. And you’ve done even more that has proven your worth. Saved people. Saved the world.” She gestures at the slumped hybrid. “She has done less bad in her life than any of you.”

 _Balancing good and bad._ Sam had dreaded the decision the group had made, but he hadn’t been able to convince them to let her live. When Leira had asked him to be the one to carry out the verdict, he thought it was the only good he could do in this situation…the only way he could minimize a gnawing sensation of guilt that made his insides knot together.

“Bu–…pardon me, father.” Castiel can’t find it in himself to call God ‘Chuck’. “You know what it…she…was. A crossbreed, an abomination.”

“Yes.” Chuck’s face is impossible to read. “A Nephalem, I think is the term.”

Looking around for support but finding none, Cas continues delicately. “Who knows what powers such a being would wield, what horrors its existence could cause?”

“The same could be said for anyone and anything.” God pats one of his many children on the shoulder, keeping a steady eye-contact. “Sometimes, it’s the existence of someone that prevents the worst to happen. Or their death that sets it off.”

Reaching for her brother’s hand, Amara walks towards the demon’s trap and stoops before the lifeless figure. Both reach out, placing radiating palms on her chest that fills the dead woman with light that pours from every orifice, pulling the body taught in the chair, and even if Sam and the rest can’t stand to look at the display directly, they know what’s happening. _Thank you._

“You’re welcome, Sam.” Leira’s breathing, but still unconscious, requiring Amara to tilt her into a better position while Chuck turns to pin Sam with serious eyes. “She’ll need you.”

“Me?” His breath catches in the throat “Wha-what can _I_ do?”

Glancing over at Dean, Cas, and Crowley, the answer comes quickly as the deity walks by. “Be the bridge between her and the others. Teach her to trust.” He stops in front of the angel. “She’ll develop abilities. Skills. She’ll require all the help she can get to understand them.”

Finally turning, it’s surprising to see tears in Amara’s eyes. “Don’t push her away, Dean.” Flustered, the hunter wrecks his brains for a comeback. “You’ll need her. All of you.”

The last part is meant for Crowley who’s been trying to make himself appear smaller near the metal screen dividing the room. He blinks perplexed at the Goddess, then gapes at the nothingness left behind as she dissipates in the dark cloud they first witnessed her as when they only knew her to be ‘The Darkness’. Chuck nods encouragingly before doing the same (although his cloud is glowing brightly).

The silence is deafening.

 _Well then…mission from God and his sis…_ Hands shaking, Sam places the blade and the lose items in Leira’s backpack before pushing it into Dean’s hands. Then he walks back to the chair and hoists the girl into his arms. He’s already carried her once before, but he didn’t remember her to be so light.

“Cas. Get the rest of her stuff.”

He doesn’t stay to hear their protests, instead he marches down the halls until he reaches one of the many free rooms with Dean following close behind. This one has the number 20 on it. It takes a couple of tries before Sam manages to turn the doorknob, pushing the door open so he can enter and lay Leira on the bed. His brother drops the bag in a corner, a brow shooting upwards and lips pursed as he assesses the change in the situation. Leaning against the dresser, he glares while Sam pulls a blanket over the woman, only sparing a glance when Cas returns carrying the notebooks and laptop.

“I have to admit…I’m not comfortable with this.” The gravelly voice is apologetic, most likely because the angel thought he knew what he had to do, and now it’s turned upside down.

“I’ll get the cuffs.” Pushing off, Dean’s already halfway out the door before Sam calls out for him. “Yeah?”

 _He’s not shitting around._ “No cuffs. Not this time.”

The angel stays silent, even with the oldest hunter looking to him for backup. “Seriously?! Sam, I’m not gonna let her just lie around without any security until we know what’s gonna happen! Chuck talked about _changes_ , goddamnit!” The younger brother doesn’t budge, and eventually Dean’s fed up. “Fine! But you _damn_ well better keep ‘n eye on her!”


	11. Renaissance

A hint of light is filtered past Leira’s nearly closed eyelids, appearing like a thin string of brightness edged by the tiniest hint of red. Something about it is unexpected, but at the moment she can’t remember why. The surface she’s lying on is soft and warm. _Bed._ There’s even something on top of her to keep her warm. _Was I sleeping?_ All the thoughts are jumbled and fuzzy, escaping any attempt at focusing on them like the 3D-tricks where you have to look just behind a picture to see the hidden image…except her vision is too blurry for her to focus anywhere. The sound of paper being turned over reaches the woman’s ear. She can smell the dusty, leather-bound book. She can smell brick and the ageless scent of concrete, nearly overpowered by wood and dried up blood. _Blood?_ It doesn’t make the fangs throb, so Leira reasons she must have fed recently. It feels that way too, because a strength is flowing through her body that she hasn’t felt in ages. _Hm. That’s not right._ Memories are fluttering against the darkened window in her mind, just out of sight but still close enough to rekindle a clammy fear that begins to squeeze her guts and heart. Again, a page rustles by its turn, stirring the smells ever so gently. Soap. Coffee. Herbs. _I know that smell._ Suddenly, the mind-window is open, and memories come rushing in. Some are dark and painful while others are kinder – especially the newest are horrible, the only consolation being a pair of sad eyes belonging to someone trying to help her even though it’s hopeless. In the end, there’d only been excruciating pain as her soul got ripped apart and burned. _Burning, white destruction._ Leira had felt the cracks, felt herself disappear from existence. The recollection is so strong that it’s almost like it’s happening again, and she bolts upright, clutching her chest where the angel blade had penetrated.

“Leira.” The male voice coming from the opposite corner of the room is quiet. Cautious.

Her first instinct is to flash the fuck out of there, but nothing happens when she tries. _The whole damn place is warded!_ Judging by the architecture and few pieces of furniture in the room, she must still be in the same building as she was kept prisoner in, except this room is designed to be a private sleeping quarter. Red brick wall on one side and painted concrete on the others, wooden floor with a threadbare throw rug to take the worst of the cold seeping up through the concrete below. There’s a bed, a dresser, and a low bookcase with a potentially comfy chair next to it…it’s hard to say much else about the last item because it’s obscured by the large frame of the hunter Sam Winchester who’s leaning slightly forward, staring intently at Leira. Backing towards the wall, she frees herself from the restrictive blanket, her eyes darting to a heap in the corner. _My stuff._ There’s no hint of the blade…but then again: she doesn’t need one to kill.

Deep wrinkles appear across the man’s forehead as the eyebrows move upwards in unison with his hands. “Leira?” _What’s going on?_ “It’s okay. Not gonna hurt you.”

“What…what happened?” She hates how timid she sounds.

“It’s bit hard to explain…but…” Sam’s still holding up his hands, careful not to make any sudden movements, “…but you’re safe…now…”

The woman glances at the door, knowing that somewhere on the other side there’s another hunter and possibly an angel and a demon and all of them wanting to end her. That’s what had happened. _Isn’t it?_

“You…they…” _Stop shaking! Get your act together, girl!_ “You killed me. They want me dead!”

Sam leans forward, shifting his wait to his feet to get up, but he stops when he sees how four very sharp canines elongate as the woman gets ready to defend herself. “Not anymore. We won’t hurt you again…I won’t hurt you.” He leans back in the chair once more.

Leira really wants to believe him. She’s yearning for someone to be friendly and trustworthy, to hold her and say that everything’s alright and that she’s not going crazy. There’s nothing in her mind that can explain what happened in between the moment she felt her soul burn and when she woke up in this room. Trying desperately to regain the upper hand in a situation that has spiraled out of her control, Leira orders the hunter to stand slowly and turn to face the chair. Once he has, she clambers out of the bed and cautiously creeps towards the tall man. Her hands are quick and nimble as she pats Sam down in search of weapons. _Nothing?_ Stepping quickly to the side, she grabs the backpack and brings it with her back to the bed where she digs through it without taking the eyes off the man. _No blade…fuck._

“Told you.” He’s still standing like hewn out of rock. _Or a tree…he’s tall enough to be one._ “I’m not gonna hurt you.” The strong-chinned face is obscured by long hair even when he looks over his shoulder. “But we don’t wanna be hurt either.”

“I won’t hurt _you_.”

“And the others?” He challenges gently.

 _They deserve it._ Rather than busting any chances she has at getting out of there, Leira keeps quiet. For a while, the only sound is the distant rush in the plumbing and the humming from the lightbulb illuminating the room.

“Why should I believe this isn’t a trick?” Rearranging the things in her backpack, she can see that the only thing missing is the blade.

Sam’s exhalation is audible. “This’ll sound strange –“

“Try me!” _Where are my boots?_

“Because God and his sister want you to live.” There’s an edge of urgency to the man’s voice and he almost turns to face her, stopping only because of a sharp warning.

 _This is so messed up! How stupid do they think I am?!_ There’s a prickly feeling running through her thighs to the back of the knees, urging Leira to run. Quietly, she grabs the jacket that’s hanging on a drawer-nob on the dresser. It’s torn and bloodied, but still useful as she grabs one of the sleeves by both ends before launching herself onto Sam’s back, slipping the leather around his throat and tightening it with one hand. The other hand clamps tightly over his mouth, muffling the sounds he makes. All the air is knocked out of Leira’s lungs when he propels them backwards into a wall, using her body as a buffer against the hard bricks that scratch against her shoulder blades. _He’s strong._ But she’s stronger and eventually he succumbs, sliding onto the dark floor as he passes out. The woman only pauses briefly to check for a pulse and grab the backpack before stepping out of the door. _No one._ The hallway is silent even after the door opens with a tiny squeal from unoiled hinges.

Small lamps here and there still glare with fluorescent light, but otherwise the hallway looks different from the one she could see when the door to the prison was open. Here, there are tiles in grey tones and black more than halfway up the walls where it’s substituted by painted concrete, and the floor almost looks like marble. Breathing in, she can faintly smell coffee and pie coming from one end, so she sneaks the other way, hoping to find a way out as she follows the curve of the passage. It leads her past dark doors with numbers on. The next issue arises when Leira finds herself at a T-intersection and no indication of which way to go. Fighting a growing paranoia, she breathes deeply. _I’m on my way out. It’s going to be fine_ , she keeps reassuring herself as she picks the left side…which turns out to be a dead end. The heartrate is high, and the breaths are reduced to shallow puffs as she backtracks to hurry down the only other path available. There are less doors here, none of them are numbered, instead carrying small metallic tags that speak of the practical uses (mostly pertaining to the maintenance and operation of the facility).

Leira has just rounded a corner when Dean Winchester appears at the end of the hallway. He’s wiping his hands in a dirty rag before looking up to see her just as the woman turns to try the nearest door in the hopes of hiding.

“Hey!” The deep voice echoes softly against the hard floor and walls. “What’re you doin’?”

Eyeing him suspiciously, the woman notices a change in his guarded behaviour. “I…uhm…Sam said the showers were this way.”

“Why didn’t he show you?” The distrust is still there under a forced friendliness and it’s impossible not to notice how hard his hands are clenching the cloth.

“I’m a big girl, y’know…I can clean m’self.” _Gotta learn to shut up, though._

An appreciative smirk makes the corners of Dean’s lips curl. “Alright, didn’t mean to –” Relaxing his stance, he swings the cloth over a t-shirt-clad shoulder while scratching his left hip lazily. “Right. Let me show you.”

The hunter indicates for Leira to turn back once more, but she doesn’t want to walk with the back to him. Seeing that she isn’t moving, he sighs, but heads slowly towards her, keeping his hands visible. There’s a slight hesitation in the steps when he’s a few feet from her. _Now or never._ Dodging quickly, the woman starts a wild dash towards the door he came through in the hopes that the oilcloth signals cars – cars signaling a garage and the way out. She might even have made it past him if it hadn’t been for the backpack that serves as a perfect handle to grab on to and Dean uses it to yank her backwards hard. She’s on the floor for less than five seconds, only to be pushed harshly against the unforgiving wall as soon as she’s back on her feet.

“Ah!” The green eyes are a hand’s length from her face, but it’s the gleaming angel blade she’s staring at as it presses into her skin right above the collarbone even as he hisses a demand to know what Leira’s done to his brother.

She hates that she has to swallow a lump before she can talk. “Nothing permanent.”

“Explain.”

With his free hand, Dean’s working the straps on the backpack until he can pull it off her. Automatically, she reaches for it as it’s dropped to the floor and the man shoves her hard against the bricks, bruising her shoulder blades. _I’m stronger than him._ Having bested him once under unfavourable conditions, Leira’s confident that she can take him down again if only the blade was just a bit further away.

“He’s unconscious, but fine.” She snarls. As if on cue, the voice of the younger brother reaches them, calling out for both Dean and Leira, the latter icily scoffing. “Told you.”

“Down here, Sammy.” Dean speaks with a clenched jaw, never breaking eye contact with the creature before him.

She does when the sound of running footsteps brings the perfectly handsome killer to them and it makes her cringe with regret to see the aggressive red marks on his throat.

“Let her go, Dean.” He sounds out of breath.

“She’s trying to run…” the brother complains, “even admitted to knocking you out.”

Placing a plate-sized hand on each of them which makes the woman cringe, Sam looks pleadingly at Leira. “No running now, okay? Let us explain it all.” Somehow his eyes aren’t grey now, but blue and brown mixed together. “Please?”

The way he says that last word breaks her resolve. Slumping against the wall, it’s all she can do to keep breathing and fight back the tears that suddenly sting her eyes. “Okay.”

It feels like minutes pass before the metal is moved. She allows Sam to lead her with a hand resting gently on her shoulder, half expecting to be brought back to either the little bedroom or the prison-chair. Instead, the trio continue towards the smell of coffee until they reach a large room with tall pillars and high ceiling. At one end, a wide arc leads to a new room where a staircase leads up to a balcony that’s hugging the curved wall, making her think of the inside of a church’s dome. The part of the area that Leira now is in has wooden floor, and despite the bricks on some walls the place is kept in soft, yellow and cream colours. It looks cozy with low bookcases and filing cabinets, and a row of large tables running down the center with lamps on transforms the place into a perfect study-area.


	12. Explaining

Sam had been watching over the woman for what felt like ages before she regained consciousness. Before that, he’d observed her while she was their prisoner, and of course on the night, they caught her. It shouldn’t be a surprise to see how strong and lithe she is, but it’s still difficult to ignore the movements as she perches on a chair that Dean has pointed out for her. Every muscle is tensed as she scans the place for a way out, weapons, or Chuck knows what…the only feature more alarming is the perfectly calm facial expression that has replaced the fear and it’s made worse by the ruined clothes and dried blood.

“Talk.” Leira demands coolly, looking from one brother to another.

And they do, carefully trying to explain about God and his sister first before Sam eventually relays the surprise visit the two deities had made. While listening, the woman fidgets with a hole in the jeans, pulling at the severed fibers. Now and then, she shrugs her shoulders as if they or the back is hurting. Once the hunters have finished, she remains quiet, drumming the slender fingers on the edge of the table while a frown begins to grow.

“How can I know you’re not lying?” Dark eyes meet Sam’s. “That you’re not trying to mess with me.”

Dean’s quick to defend them, but Leira doesn’t worthy him a look and eventually Sam takes a deep breath. “Look,” he begins, trying to steady his own nerves as much as hers, “we don’t…I don’t expect you to just believe us…so…if it makes a difference…” he glances over at his brother who’s glaring a warning, “then you can read my memories or whatever.”

“No! You’re n–“ Any brotherly protests are stopped efficiently as the woman smiles.

Getting to her feet, she silently walks right up to Sam, staring into his face with a brazenness that makes his guts tighten and he can feel the anticipation flutter against it when she places a few fingers on his forehead. It takes a moment before the thoughts are replaced by grey mist that makes the head feel heavy and sluggish. It stops quickly though, allowing him to blink to bring the library into focus with Leira’s face in the forefront and Dean a bit further behind with the blade pulled out.

“Oh…” the Nephalem’s gaze flickers between her hand and Sam, “I’ve never…that’s new.”

He can feel his jaw drop and hurries to close his mouth while wordlessly trying to get Dean to pack the blade away. “So…erm…” Sam glances at the shorter woman, “you’ve never…read minds before?”

“Nope.” The ‘p’ pops, calling in a silence that stretches on until she shrugs. “Chuck. Who would’ve thought of that? And seriously, Nephalem? Like that’s not _at all_ confusing, being so close to Nephilim?! Couldn’t he’ve decided to call me a…a…ehm…Nephion or something?”

The brothers don’t quite follow, and they get her to explain that it’s a portmanteau of Nephilim and Cambion which actually makes sense. She get’s them to elaborate on the place, though they still refuse to share the location, and how the bunker is warded against anything supernatural teleporting in and out, but she’s already guessed that part, waving them on to explain where Crowley and Castiel are. The angel more or less stays with them in the bunker, but Crowley hates the place and has Hell to see to anyways even if they’d want him around. Not that they do.

“They’re not gonna tell anyone about you.” Dean promises. “I’d trust Cas with my life and Crowley…well, he’s Crowley, but he’s not a complete moron.”

A ghost of a smile plays Leira’s lips. “That’s _very_ reassuring.” Sarcasm is dripping from each word, but she stretches lazily before pinning the brothers with steely eyes. “If you want me to trust you then give me back my blade…and boots.”

Sam knows how much Dean hates the idea of arming the woman and it takes a truckload of hints before the man finally accepts it and hands the weapon over. He does mumble something about ‘trust being earned’, which makes Leira chuckle darkly. _Yeah…we need to earn it too._


	13. Cleaning up

They had both followed her back to ‘her’ room, then the short hunter had trudged off to retrieve the last of her belongings while Sam explained about showers, toilets, the kitchen, and everything else. It was the showers that caught her attention. The place might be old, but the water in the pipes is warm and clean, rinsing away the last traces of what she’s gone through. It runs down the drain with the soap and shampoo/conditioner, red and white mixing into a pinkish froth that smells of iron and peaches.

The foreign memories are playing in a loop in Leira’s mind, warping what she thought she knew about her place in the world. For ages, she’d been alone, never really being able to trust anyone in fear of what they might do and now she’s suddenly supposed to trust the enemy. Hunters. _What would Nina think of all this?_  Turning the water off, she steps out of the shower (one in a line of several) to dry off. Nina was too friendly for own good, seeing the best in people despite the obvious flaws. Perhaps that was why she’d refused to leave Leira alone, forcing a friendship upon her like the sunrise after a night of drinking: too bright to begin with, but soon warm and soothing. With the sun gone now, there’s a dreary, indifferent coldness in its place. _What would Nina do?_ Pulling on clean clothes, the newly identified Nephalem comes to the conclusion that the vampire wouldn’t have trusted the strangers, but she would have made the best of the situation and that includes accepting that, right now, the safest place is with them until she can figure out what is happening. _Which means,_ she thinks while brushing the knots out of her hair, _that I’ve got to play their game._ Staying at the same place as Dean is going to be a nightmare, topped only by the fact that she’ll be dealing with more than just a couple of humans. Hunters don’t forget.

Bundling up the ruined clothes, she tosses them into a plastic bag to dispose of them later then scoops up the rest of her things and marches towards her quarter, although she doesn’t make it all the way uninterrupted. Rounding the corner, Leira sees that the door to the neighbouring room is left open, yellow light falling in a crooked rectangle onto the gleaming floor and opposite wall. Standing still, she can hear shuffling of paper and the scraping of a pen, from someone jotting down something hastily. Careful not to make a sound, the woman places what she’s carrying on the floor before stepping closer with the back seemingly glued to the cold tiles until she’s brushing against the doorframe. _Coffee,_ again _, soap and spices._ An odd warmth spreads to her cheeks when she realizes that it must be Sam’s room right next to her own, and even the reassurance that it must be to prevent her from doing anything bad can’t quite tame a surge in the heartbeat. Poking her head past the wooden post, Leira sees him sitting on the bed with one leg dangling over the edge and the other tugged under him. His head is bend low over scattered, handwritten documents and old books, making the hair fall in front of the face like a thick, brown curtain with his impressive jaw visible underneath it. Leira withdraws and picks up her things again, preparing to sneak past the hunter’s room and get to safety in her own.

…

Sam looks up just in time to see the woman hurry past, then he hears the door open and close quickly followed by the creaking of springs in a mattress. _Nephion._ Smiling to himself, he refocuses on the yellowed pages spread over the bed. He’s working on a sort of compilation on possible powers and weaknesses a Nephalem could have, hoping that it will serve as a preparation on Leira’s development. It would have been great if Chuck had been more specific about what’s going to happen from now on and Sam half suspects that God doesn’t even know for sure either. He’s just placed the tip of the pen on the paper to note the ability to read memories by touch when the sound of a muffled drumroll can be heard through the wall, making him pause again. The wide range of music had been the first thing about the woman that had surprised Dean pleasantly. Sure, there was a lot that the classic rock-lover didn’t know or like, but there had been just as much that got approved with a silent nod.

His curiosity rekindled, Sam walks to the closed door behind which the woman has confined herself. She lowers the volume after the first knock but doesn’t answer until the second.

“Yeah?” The voice is sharp, hinting that she’s alert.

“It’s me…uhm…Sam.” _Way to sound like a dork._ “Can I come in?”

Too many seconds for his liking tick by before the affirmation drifts through the wood, allowing him to enter. The first thing he sees is the low chair and bookcase against the raw concrete (the latter balancing the laptop which still is playing softly), but as he steps past the door he can look over at the dresser next to the bed where Leira’s standing, placing the few clean bits of clothing she has away and not turning to look at him. On the floor is a bagged bundle of the bloodied rags she had been wearing, the sight making Sam feel guilty.

“I can go get the rest of your stuff from…err from your place…” It’s a bad substitute for the life they’ve robbed her off. Literally. “If…if you want.”

The narrow shoulders tense visibly under the tight baby-blue t-shirt. “Hmhm.” Finally, the woman turns to face him, eyes narrowed behind a stray lock of dark hair as she puts one and one together. “You’re not gonna let me go anytime soon, are ya?”

A heavy lump settles neatly deep in his guts, but he tries to ignore it by employing some logic. “D’you really think that’s safe for you out there?”

“Well it _might’ve_ been if you and your _goon_ of a brother hadn’t involved Feathers and His Highness!” Leira moves swiftly, getting in front of the hunter and standing on her toes in an attempt to get in his face. It might actually have been cute if she didn’t look like she’s about to rip his throat out.

Taking a few steps back, Sam’s already trying to apologize. Cas and Crowley are destroying any evidence of the Nephalem and at least the angel’s 100 percent trustworthy. “I’m really sorry ‘bout all of this! But lets at least make it up to you by helping you out ‘til it’s safe for you.”

“You really are, aren’t ya?” She’s backed down but is still eyeing him suspiciously from under the dark hair. “Very quickly even…before I’d explained anything…” The woman pulls the last notebooks out of the backpack and skirts around him. “Why?”

Her back is turned and Sam’s not sure what she’s getting at. “Why…what?” Deep wrinkles form between his brows and across his forehead as he tries to judge what’s going on in her head.

“I sensed it when…when I saw your memories.” Leira’s hand is shaking lightly as she places the worn books on a shelf. “You felt sorry for me already after the first playdate with Dean. Why?”

A heat rushes to his cheeks and he starts to fidget with the hem of his shirt as he looks to the ground which, obviously, doesn’t give him a way to answer the question.

“Let’s just say…what we do uhm…what we do’s necessary…but it doesn’t mean we have to like the methods we use.” He can feel her eyes on him, almost like they are burning through his skin to will out more. “Chuck’s right! Y’know? We’ve done some bad shit too, but we’ve tried to do the right thing! And if we’d not heard about you before, then you probably couldn’t be all that…bad…” His voice trails off, allowing the bussing of a lightbulb and the muted tones of Ram Jam to become very obvious.

Leira doesn’t look at him when she walks back to the bed and rummages through some of the smaller pockets of her luggage coming up emptyhanded. She pushes the bag into his arms, explaining that she’d left the key behind, thinking she’d never be coming back there. Baffled, he types the address into his phone as she dictates it. Her instructions are simple, and he can relate to the simplicity in her life as he realizes that the only belongings she wants are the clothes for the simple reason that they won’t allow her to go shopping for anything new, but there’s nothing with sentimental value tying her to the place. Nothing to hold her back if she needs to run. _Run from people like Dean and me._

He reaches for her slender fingers, but stops himself, reverting to fiddling with the backpack. “You won’t have to run again…”

Deadpanning, she answers him by nodding towards the door. The audience is over.

First, he tracks Dean down, just to give him a heads up that he’ll be gone for a few hours. Then he grabs a few extra duffel bags, just in case, and heads to the garage where the Impala is parked.

…

It’s easy to find the place and even during the early afternoon the town is too little to supply any onlookers when Sam enters the old complex’s hall. Two floors up, he kneels in front of a door with chipped paint and pulls out the lockpicks, making short work of the last hindrance.

What he sees is only partially what he had expected from the harsh appearance of the woman. The apartment is small, consisting of a tiny kitchen (with white tiles on the walls and cracked linoleum on the floor) on the left separated from what makes out the living room and dining room in one by a half-wall, and to the right is a clumsily made arch covered by a bright green curtain. According to Leira, the bedroom and bathroom is through there and that’s where Sam has to go. It’s always tickled his curiosity when he’s entered someone else’s place and this time is no exception. There’s a potted plant in the windowsill and a few pictures and posters on the (oddly happy) pastel-yellow walls, but closer inspection reveals that they are cut-outs from magazines. At least the few books on a shelf are real and he dumps them into the backpack before pushing past the curtain.

The bedroom is kept in dusty blue colours (again colours that doesn’t seem to fit with the person he’s getting to know) broken by the white from cheap furniture that looks like it must be second-hand or from dumpster diving. Sliding the wardrobe open, Sam feels ashamed when he begins to pull out clothes from the first drawer only to realize that it’s panties and thongs in various materials that would have made Dean nod with approval…and honestly Sam can’t stop butterflies from breaking into flight at the laces and silk that the appealing woman favours. Next drawer is not better, although it’s less full, because there are the bras. _Get a grip!!_ He huffs angrily at himself, contemplating the option to join Dean on one of his benders and run off some steam. Being stuck in the bunker for too long can’t be good. Socks, shirt, pants, skirts, sweaters, dresses, and even shoes follow the underwear, and all in all it only fills the backpack and less than a duffel bag – a lot less than any other woman Sam’s ever met.

A raid through the bathroom yields close to nothing except a small box of makeup and cheap jewellery. And a loofa. The man’s not quite sure why he grabs it, only that it feels wrong to leave it.


	14. Settling in

Leira has already decided that the room’s an enormous upgrade compared to the chair in the trap. However, after a couple of hours the concrete and brick walls have become boring, so she swings her legs over the edge of the bed and pulls on the boots, doublechecking that the blade is where it should be. _Where to?_ She considers the options as she scratches a shoulder blade absentmindedly.

In the end the thirst for knowledge wins, drawing her to the area that functions as a library. Many of the leather-bound tomes appear to be ledgers dating back several centuries, but there are also bestiaries, religious texts, spell books, and much more that can keep Leira busy for ages. She’s about to pull out a book called “Magiae Naturalis” when a clanking is heard from somewhere beyond the room with the metal staircase, making her flinch. Following the direction, the sound had come from, the scent of ham and cheese becomes detectable together with a musky smell that makes her hairs stand on end. At the end of a short hallway she can see light streaming through an open door, and the movements of a fractured shadow. _Several light sources,_ she reasons, more out of habit than need. Judging by that and the sound of heavy footsteps, Leira knows that there’s just one person in there and she draws herself up along the tiled wall next to the door before slipping out the blade. _Maybe it’s one of the hunters or their pets?_ It would make sense, considering that this is their lair, and that no burglar with an ounce of self-respect would stop to make lunch while on the job…not to mention that no demon, monster, or angel would. _Unless laying a trap._ The adrenalin is already surging through her veins, priming her for a confrontation of any kind, and she uses the distorted reflection in the blade to pinpoint the position of whoever’s in the room before stepping in. The yellowed tiles on the walls are the only dashes of colour in the kitchen made of steel and concrete, except the red of the plaid shirt belonging to the man who’s drawn a serrated knife, pointing it confidently at Leira.

“Try me, bitch.” Dean growls.

Exhaling slowly through the nose, Leira battles her instincts and puts the blade back in the holster. “Didn’t know who to expect.”

Mirroring the gesture, although slower, the man glares at her. “Not a lot of options around here.” He grabs a plate laden with a stack of sandwiches from the metal counter and heads over to the only wooden furniture to sit. A bottle of beer is already waiting for him there. “Didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to try your luck against a hunter anyways.”

“Didn’t I already do that?” She hates his arrogance with all her heart. “Tortured, starved…and I still kicked your ass.”

That shuts him up for a moment and Leira looks around again, spotting the fridge. She knows he’s looking when she crosses the floor to the tall appliance and retrieves a bottle for herself. _“Pride of Wisconsin”, my ass._ Most American popular brands are like having sex in a canoe, and it sometimes makes her miss the good old days.

“Well help yourself.” The snide comment is just loud enough to be heard through the food in the hunter’s mouth.

Turning to face him, the Nephion or Nephalem takes a long pull before answering. The beer is bitter and heavy on the hops, but the taste disappears as soon as she swallows the cold liquid, leaving nothing but a flat, empty feeling in the mouth. _What am I gonna do?_ Now that she’s allowed to move more or less freely inside the hunters’ hideout it won’t be long before she finds the exits and can make her way back to freedom, but the idea of breaking a promise (even to someone like these guys) doesn’t sit well with her. It’d prove Dean and Castiel right, and just the thought of their knowing smirk annoys her more than she would like to admit; and Sam… _he’d be disappointed._ No, she’s going to have to play this right, be the good girl until they decide to let her go.

“What have I done that’s made you hate me so much?” She asks, careful to keep her voice calm.

“You got born, sweet cheeks.” Stuffing his face, the man doesn’t even bother looking at her. “Your mom’s a demon. Dad a dick with wings.”

The blatant double standard makes Leira scoff lightly. “Says the guy regularly working with that kind.”

“That’s different.”

“How?” She challenges, reaching back to scratch an itch.

The movement makes the hunter tense, ready to fight if he deems it necessary and he almost looks disappointed when he realizes it’s not. “I know what they are. Know what to expect.” He stands up suddenly, making Leira jump. “But you…good luck proving your so-called innocence.”

Grabbing the lunch, he stalks out of the kitchen, leaving the girl standing alone and frustrated. Again, the overwhelming urge to run off makes the back of Leira’s thighs tense and her toes wriggle in the boots. _If I run they’ll hunt me down._ Pushing emotions aside, she prepares mentally to spend time in her own private hell.

…

Having taken refuge in her room, Leira’s leafing through a handwritten guide on demons and ways to defeat them one way or another. She’d hoped to find something on her mother’s kind, but at this moment the hope is dwindling fast and she’s more than happy to be interrupted when big feet stop outside her door, heralding the following knock.

“Yeah.” She pushes off the bed and the cold of the wall she’d been leaning against to soothe an itch.

The door opens as her feet hit the ground to reveal Sam. He’s got a potted plant in one arm, the backpack on the shoulders, and a duffle bag with the strap slung across his chest, pulling the plaid crooked. With him comes a scent of fresh air and old car.

Reaching out, the woman grabs the plant first. “Thank…you…” She hadn’t expected to ever see that one again, but now she gets to place it on top of the dresser.

“You’re welcome.” The answer comes with a slight grunt as Sam hoists the remaining load onto the floor. “Grabbed pretty much anything, but…uhm…if you’re missing something…” his voice trails off and he attempts to get the point across by spreading his arms to encompass the entire room.

“Right…I’ll let you know.” _Fuck, this is getting awkward._

“Dean’s gonna go on a supply run…probably burgers and beer. Need anything?”

Looking around for her wallet, she finds it on the shelf above the bed. “Drinks sounds good.”

The twenty-dollar note she hands over is met by scepticism. “I’m…I’m not sure…” a deep breath steadies him enough to continue, “The nearest blood bank’s a full day’s drive away –“

“Alcohol. Not blood.” She doesn’t bother hiding the teasing tone. “Anything strong, but if it’s tequila then he damn well better get lemons too.”

“Oh! Right, yeah.” It’s a relief when he grabs for the doorknob and he’s almost closed the door behind him when he pauses to turn back. “Oh, one thing…” he waits for her approval before continuing, “the accent you used at the bar…just for show?”

“Yeah…anyone showing up needs to have a plausible background story. Mine included the south states.”

Opening and closing his mouth, she can see that Sam wants to know more, but in the end, he just smiles apologetically and leaves her alone. _Bloody hell, one is an ass and the other is…_ she considers what exactly the younger hunter is but comes up blank which oddly annoys her even more.


	15. Complications

Sam and Dean hadn’t been surprised when their newest resident had decided to stay cooped up in her room, only appearing briefly to collect her bottles and change. As the evening progresses and Sam has taken to his own room to relax and research anything he can get his hands on related to hybrids, he’s been hearing the music playing faintly through the wall. Twice the door to Leira’s room has opened and closed, but other than that it’s been quiet.

Maybe that’s why he notices it. A song has just ended, enveloping the bunker in nightly silence, the only sounds being the lightbulb in the desk lamp and a soft whimper. It’s that last reverberation that makes him jump out of bed to investigate. Standing in the darkened hallway by the door next to his, Sam can hear a sort of hiss mixed with something else. _She’s crying?!_ Seconds pass in an endlessly slow stream while he debates what to do. On one hand, she’s made it very clear that she doesn’t want to be bothered and he doesn’t know her well enough to go against that…even if she’s sad or scared by the situation she’s in. But then again, if it was him then he’d want someone to be there with him. _Fuck._ They’ve already messed up her life enough. All those thoughts go down the drain the moment Sam hears a broken gasp.

Pushing the door open, he has to get used to the darkness in her room. The only light is from the dimmed laptop-screen and a sharp flicker across the wall at the far side of the bed.

“Leira?” It’s possible to make out a dark shape against the white sheet.

Her whisper is cracked and shrill, contradicting the words she utters. “Go…away.”

Of course, he doesn’t leave, that’s not an option in Sam’s mind anymore. And he flicks the light switch instead, bathing the room in a blinding glare that makes him blink for a moment before he can see clearly again.

“DEAN!” It’s a mess. The tangled sheet and covers are streaked with red smears and it’s spread more each time Leira writhes in agony, her hands clawing at her back. _Blood_. “ DEAN!!”

Rushing forward and kicking something next to the bed over, the hunter grabs the woman’s wrists with one hand, fighting to keep the grip despite the slick blood as he hauls her into a semi-seated position to get a look at her back. The lose t-shirt that makes out most of her PJ is ragged and sticking to her back, but he can make out the deep gashes crisscrossing the shoulder blades in threes or fours paralleled with each other. Anything else is obscured because of the blood from the many lashes that have dug into the flesh.

“DEAN!! God DAMN IT!” A cold, dizzying panic is clouding Sam’s brain as he tries to understand what would make her do this to herself.

“I’m here! What’s –“ Skidding to a halt, gun and knife both drawn, Dean stares open-mouthed at the scene. “What the _hell_?”

“I dunno! Just…get the cuffs on my desk.” It’s a relief to see his older brother follow the order unquestioningly and Sam turns back to the Nephalem who’s whimpering and struggling to reach her back. “Shh. It’s gonna be okay. Don’t move.”

She tugs the knees under her chest which makes her kneel in a fetus position. “It hurts!” Tears are streaming down Leira’s face, making the dark hair stick to her cheeks. “Ma-ake it…stop!”

A fresh wave of agony makes her roll the shoulders, pumping out more blood from the ragged wounds and dragging a broken scream from between clenched teeth and fangs. Dean’s back and he knows what has to be done: he loops the chain from the handcuffs around a leg of the bed before snapping the restraints around the crimson-covered wrists. It drags the woman sideways, arms stretched uncomfortably over the edge of the mattress, but at least she can’t reach behind her to her back now. Not for lack of trying, though. Pushing off with hips and legs, she aims for the floor and would have landed on it head first if Sam didn’t manage to ensnare her by the waist.

“Call Cas.” He drags her onto her stomach again, but this time Sam doesn’t let go.

“On it.”

Nothing he says calms Leira down and he can’t get her to say anything that makes sense. Sometimes, she lies completely still, barely breathing as she tries to fight against the pain; most of the time, however, he can see how the back and shoulders convulse and shake, pulling at the wounds which makes flashes of white light flicker across the walls and ceiling, creating nightmarish shadows behind anything that blocks the shine of the grace. Dean is going between the bed and the sink by the door, soaking cloths in cold water to try and soothe the woman after having returned with the news that Castiel is on the way.

“Why’s she not healing, Sammy?”

“How the _fuck_ should _I_ know?” _Come on, Cas. We need you._

Sam’s lying more or less wrapped around her. His arms are tugging at her waist and legs entwined with hers to prevent her from kicking him by accident, and all of it is, frankly, a lot closer than he’s comfortable with.

As if Dean has read his brother’s mind he suddenly smirks. “Well…can’t say you aren’t getting any action in bed, huh?”

“Shut up!” He rolls his eyes at the immature comment, meeting a dark, teary stare instead. “It’ll be okay…Castiel’s on the way.”

She can only nod, but when renewed agony rolls through her body she doesn’t break eye contact.


	16. Growth

Flashing into the bunker would have made it faster, but the added wardings since the Nephalem’s resurrection are necessary. Hurrying through the darkened place, Castiel quickly finds both brothers in one of the spare rooms, tending to the Nephalem who’s shrieking in agony as jagged growths are beginning to protrude from its back.

“This is not possible.” Few things can shock an angel, but this sight can.

Dean stops in the middle of applying cold cloths to the former prisoner. “What?”

“Please, Cas.” Young Sam’s restraining Leira but manages to look around when he hears Cas’s voice. “You’ve gotta help her.”

Stepping closer to the bed, the brothers let him examine the shoulder blades and blood-soaked things breaking through the skin and muscles. _It’s unheard of._ For now, all he dares to do is lessen the pain by placing a few fingers on the creature’s temple, allowing it a respite.

“What’s going on, man?”

Acknowledging Dean’s question, Cas traces the boney structures carefully, setting off a tremble in the body restrained on the bed. “Something…I didn’t think was possible…”

“…well _thank_ you! That _really_ clears it up!”

The oldest hunter’s response in stressful situation is often edged by sarcasm, a trait that once confused Castiel but he’s since learned to appreciate it. This time, however, the full answer may not bring much clarity and unfortunately there’s no previous cases to relate to.

“Cas!” The urgency in Sam’s voice makes Castiel frown. “Can you help her?”

“I can lessen the pain, but the Nephalem will have to go through this transformation unaided as this is something new…” he takes a steeling breath, “angels are created _with_ their wings fully formed. But it appears that…she is _growing_ them.”

The silence in the room is oppressing as the humans look at each other, the woman, Cas, and finally back in disbelief. The whimpers have lessened, and the angel can sense the weakened state she’s in. Looking around the room, it’s evident that she has tried to deal with the distress by means of alcohol (an empty bottle of rum has been kicked into a corner), but to no avail, leading her to relieve the pain by easing the passage of the new limbs simply by clawing at the obtrusive tissue. The folded wings are forcing their way through the bleeding gashes, but the limbs’ sizes and plumage have gotten them jammed.

“It may be possible to…facilitate the process.” _It’s the only option._

Sam’s eyes are pleading as he looks up at Castiel. “Do it. Anything.”

Instructing both men to hold on with all might to the female, the angel braces himself with a foot on the bed before grabbing the stuck wing furthest from him. The manhandling makes her cry out in agony and attempt to writhe away, but she’s unable to move with the combined weight of the hunters on top of her. Manipulating the joints of the hollow bones and smoothing the feathers to minimize resistance, Cas works swiftly to ease the wing out. As he succeeds everyone in the room hears a sucking sound of the flesh falling back into place around the new structure. He makes sure that all the feathers are free before moving on to the right wing. By now he’s soaked in the Nephalem’s blood up on the elbows and across the chest, and this time, when the tip of the wing finally breaks free from the wound it flails upwards, spattering blood across the men and onto the wall on the other side of the room.

“There.” Castiel smooths the feathers. “Now she must heal.”

At least the Nephalem has stopped struggling and the trio decide to uncuff her. Seconds pass, and she remains immobile. Then minutes.

“She’s not healing.” Dean points out the obvious. He’s now standing next to Cas, surveying the mess.

The angel would under normal circumstances heal anyone in need thereof, but these are foreign waters. “The risk may be too great…I have no knowledge or understanding of a Nephalem’s physiology.”

“Blood.”

The two friends stare at Sam who still is on the bed.

“Dude. She drank the last we had.”

Dean may be right. Castiel knows little of the resources the brothers have available, but he does know that it’s rare for them to need blood for anything else than a spell now and then, and because of that the meager reserve has been drained each time Sam has offered Leira anything during her imprisonment. Carefully repositioning, the younger Winchester pulls the Nephalem partially onto his lap, offering an arm that already is covered in the crimson fluid from her wounds.

“Come on, Leira,” he proffers, “you need to drink.” As his wrist pushes against her lips, the only response is a weak moan before she turns away. “I need something sharp.” Sam looks to the others.

Where Dean is too astounded to answer Castiel sighs deeply. “Think about this, Sam. If she begins to feed what will happen?” He reasons. “Will she even be able to stop?”

“It’s a chance we’ve gotta take.”

Steely grey meets ocean blue eyes in a staring contest that the angel already knows he will lose. _Father did task us with protecting her._ Producing his angel blade, Castiel reluctantly hands it over, ignoring the protests of the older brother. A quick flash of silver is all it takes for Sam to open a wound on his lower arm which he then holds out for the woman. Within seconds, she’s caught the sense and is struggling against her own willpower while every instinct begs her to feed even as she pushes the arm away.

“C’mon. It’s okay.” The longhaired man manages to press the self-inflicted injury against her lips. “Drink.”

A pink tongue darts out between her lips and fangs, lapping up a few drops. Then she moves, so fast that only the angel sees it clearly, grabbing the arm tightly as the fangs sink into the flesh and the dry lips close around to create a vacuum making Sam hiss at the sudden added pain. Her chest and back heaves with each draught and the beneficial effect is clear after a couple of mouthfuls: the mangled skin and underlying tissue knit together before their very eyes, recreating a smooth surface all along the roots of the wings. And the new appendages grow fuller, stronger. _Healthy._

“That’s enough.” The harsh tone of worry laces Dean’s words.

The man’s already reaching out to pull the Nephalem off his brother when she lets go on her own accord, finishing the feeding with a broad sweep of her tongue across the laceration and puncture marks which disappear.

“Remarkable.” Cas has to admit.

…

Licking her lips and retracting the fangs, Leira sinks back a bit only to become painfully aware of what (or rather _who_ ) she’s sitting on. _No, fuck, crap!_ She tries to pull away from Sam, but he has an arm around her waist, and somehow, she can’t find it in herself to use force. _I’ve fed from him!_ Looking away in order not to face him, she sees Dean and Castiel in various states of confusion and distrust. Castiel’s surprisingly calm, the scruffy face might as well have been hewn from marble except for the one raised eyebrow and the quivering black wings. Dean, on the other hand, is tensed with arms lifted from his body as if preparing for a fight and his brows are pulled down, making his green eyes turn into those of an animal predator.

Swirling to face Sam, anger bubbles up inside her. “You bloody _moron_!” Perhaps it’s the wrong thing to say first to someone who’s just helped you get better, but what he’s done is just too stupid. “What the hell were you thinking?! If I hadn’t stopped then yo–“

“Hey!” Dean barks. “Don’t call my brother a moron…I mean…he _is_ , but I’m the one who gets to tell him off. Not you!”

The brother in question sighs, but still doesn’t release the Nephalem. “Both of you, shut up.”

He sends both Dean and Cas a saying look, and they leave the room reluctantly which does absolutely nothing to calm Leira’s nerves even if something else is pulling her attention away. The way to describe the sensation has nothing to do with added weight, rather an expanded perception, like the feeling when a body part that has been numb wakes up again and the consciousness of having regained the senses makes itself known. Craning her neck, the woman can see two dark shapes, still distorted because they are soaked…but unmistakably shaped like wings.

“What…the…fuck?” The breathy exclamation doesn’t quite cover her incredulity as she writhes in the warm restraint to take in everything: the wings, the mess of the room, the man holding on to her. None of it makes any sense but fans the embers of panic. “Let me go!” She’s beginning to hyperventilate.

“Not ‘ntil you calm down.” Grabbing her chin, he tilts her head towards him. “Just breathe, Leira, okay? It’s gonna be fine…relax…”

 _He really believes that._ In his eyes, where grey and brown are mixing, the Nephalem finds an infectious reassurance that pushes the rest of the world away to a safe distance. As her heartrate lowers, his hold becomes gentler and he gently slides a few fingertips along Leira’s jawline before softly letting it rest on her neck. _I should hate this,_ the woman realizes as she melts into his touch, _I should fear him._

“See? You’re fine, I’m not going to hurt you.” Barely a whisper, the deep voice vibrates through his chest.

“I could’ve killed –“

“But you didn’t.” He pulls her a bit closer, and she hates to admit that she doesn’t want him to let go. “I trusted you to control it.”

“One hell of a risk.”

“It was the only way.” She can still smell the coffee and herbs strongly when he breathes out hard. “You weren’t healing. You’d lost too much blood.”

Lifting her head reluctantly, Leira scrutinizes the surroundings. _Shit._ She’s made a mess out of the place during the manic efforts to relieve the burning, stabbing pain from what turned out to be wings. It takes little to no effort for her to extend one of the new limbs and its span baffles her more than the fact that she can see it clearly. _I could se Castiel’s wings clearly too!_ The Seraphim’s plumage is black, but Leira’s (although dark) appears to have a different colour hidden under the sticky blood, and as she brushes a feather clean between her fingers a dark, blue colour is revealed.

“Can you see them, Sam?”

He shakes his head, causing some of his hair to fall into his face. “Are they…erm…fine?”

“They’re messy, but yeah…” _Why do I have wings now?_ Leira has been raised to act practically and logically, and now that she can’t conceivably expect an explanation to the situation she feels the urge to do something else. The options are obvious. “Speaking of mess…I should clean up.”

This time Sam allows the woman to get off the bed. “I’ll help you.”

Of course, as annoying as the man is, he doesn’t take no for an answer and soon they’ve gathered the bloodied bedding and wiped off the worst of the stains off the wall while suffering through an awkward silence; if they want to succeed in sorting out the rest, they themselves will need to get cleaned off first. It’s only when they reach the bathroom that they realize the problem with the plan.

“You go ahead, Sam. I’ll wait.”

Leira offers while staring at the door to the unisex-facility. Behind it is a long row of shower with walls in between and absolutely no way to maintain privacy. Apparently, the place is designed with just one gender in mind as occupants. The sound of shuffling makes her glance over at the tall hunter and she can see a blush growing rapidly.

“Nonono, don’t worry. You go first…you…uhm…need it more, I think.” He keeps looking anywhere but at her.

Looking down at herself, she gets the point. “Don’t be silly…cleaning the…feathers…it might take a while, _aaand_ ,” she hurries on to avoid getting interrupted, “rinsing the sheets’ll take time too.”

At that precise moment, the door opens abruptly letting out a cloud of steam and Dean, only wearing a towel hanging low on his hips. “Oh, fucks sake! Just make out and get it over with…and keep it down, ‘kay?”

None of the little brother’s protests can stop the hunter as he lurches off to his room. _Well, no need to lose my head._ Shrugging nonchalantly, Leira aims for the nearest shower stall and tosses the linen she’s been carrying on the floor, asking Sam to bring the rest, which he does without objecting.

“T-shirt.”

“’Scuse me?” He stares at the woman who’s leaning over the load to turn on the cold water, but she simply holds out a hand, palm up and wiggling the fingers at him to hurry up.

Between her feet, the white fabric is turning pink as the waterlogged material diffuses the blood and she abandons the wait in favour of separating each item, then meticulously rinsing and wringing one at a time, starting with the pillow cover (that one had been spared the worst).

“C’mon, might as well rinse it with the rest unless you prefer cold showers.”

Leira smirks to herself when the faded t-shirt lands by her feet, but she resists the curiosity to sneak a peek.

“I’ll give a hand with the big stuff.” The hunter promises, setting to work next to her.

Together, they make quick and silent work of the load and Sam is utilizing his height to hang the dripping linen over the tiled walls separating each shower unit while the woman is able to appreciate the impressive build and surprisingly tan skin. But in spite of the view, company, and task at hand, Leira’s brain is busy trying to make sense of everything, sometimes bringing her thoughts far away from the situation right here and now, and as soon as they’re done, she excuses herself claiming that she’ll get a towel for Sam, so he doesn’t have to drip everywhere to and from the bathroom.

Padding along the cold stone floors of the hallway, the Nephalem is unable to reason her way through the mess she’s in, and unfortunately the answers don’t present themselves in the storage/laundry room or on the way back either.

“What’s up?” Sam’s concerned voice pulls her out of her ruminations as he takes the towel from her.

“Did they…?” She stops and shakes her head. “Never mind.” Leira knows everything the two deities had said, after all, the hunter had allowed her to read his memories.

It makes her flinch a little when the man grabs her by the shoulders, leaning down to bring his face on level with hers. “Hey…you can tell me.”

There’s only honesty and concern in his voice, something that he’s been generous with since their first unsupervised chat. If only she could trust it. She really wants to, and she wants to let go of old habits that dictate secrecy and solitude. _Why shouldn’t I?_ The brothers and their pet angel already know the darkest of her secrets.

“Why the wings? Why the resurrection? In fact…” she bites the bottom lip to prevent it from trembling, cursing silently at her own weakness, “why’re you even being nice to me?”

Sam regards her in silence for a moment before bowing the head in resignation. When he looks up something she can’t identify is playing in his eyes. “I dunno ‘bout your wings, but I guess it’s ‘cause you’re part angel.” He tries a little smile, as if that should have been an obvious answer. “And for why Chuck ‘n Amara interfered…well…you know as much as me, but we’ll find out, okay?” His confidence is warming, and he beams when Leira smiles timidly. “As for the last bit…you seem like a nice person, I think.”

 _What sort of answer is that?_ It’s the kind that makes her blush, becoming very aware of the ripped t-shirt and the short shorts she’s wearing, and that Sam’s only sporting loose jogging pants and a tattoo by the left clavicle to cover just a bit of skin. Momentarily distracted, she frowns at the black ink, recognizing the symbol to be an anti-demon-possession sigil. _Will I be able to posses someone?_ Shaking her head, she mumbles that he ought to get cleaned up, then Leira twists carefully out of his grasp and returns to the safety of the other side of the door.

…

It had taken forever to clean and then dry the feathers, so Leira is more than happy when she comes back to her room only to discover that the bed is made, and the rest of the stains cleaned away.


	17. Status quo

The first few days pass in a blur, filled with nothing but reading in the room as Leira doesn’t feel like being around the others (particularly Dean and Castiel). The few times she runs into the angel, he doesn’t show any sigs of hostility, but his people skills are rusty to say the least. Whenever he attempts to start a conversation it feels forced and he’s constantly on guard around the half-breed…just like she is in relation towards him. So, she’s stuck with observing rather than interacting when they’re in the same room, and she devotes her time to see how he deals with the feathered appendages. Leira had been surprised when she realized that both her own and his wings can pass unhindered through any physical obstacles (alive or not) without problems or discomfort; since then, she’s tried to understand what the use for them is, but Castiel never uses them deliberately when she’s around. _Maybe they’re just for looks?_

The Nephion (as she prefers her kind to be called) is rummaging through the books in the library while considering everything she knows about angels. They love to show off their power and they go all in on displays of status too. In fact, they are much vainer than they ought to be according to the bible. Admittedly, Castiel differs from the last point as he always wears a ruffled trench coat and suit and he could make do with a proper shave. Pulling out a tattered, leather-bound tome, she stares at the title without really seeing it.

“What’re you snooping ‘round for?” Dean’s voice drawls from the steps leading down to the hall-like entrance area.

_Fuck, he can be silent!_ “Not snooping, just looking for something to read.”

She watches as he ascends and walks over to where she’s now standing and clutching the book. “Spanish Inquisition…” he shoots her an indeterminable look, “light, fun reading.”

“Thought I’d see where you got some of your tricks from.” Her brain shouts at her mouth to shut up, but the words are out and she’s not about to apologize for them.

His green eyes widen in surprise, then a grin splits across his face. “Y’know what?” He chuckles oddly friendly. “Maybe my brother’s got a point…maybe you’re not so bad after all…”

_Sam says that?_ To say that Leira’s baffled would be an understatement. She’d expected a scathing remark of some sort, not a compliment regardless of how well concealed it is. “Well…I gotta do _something_.” She tries to hide the confusion by turning back to the shelves. “Otherwise I’ll bore myself to death.”

“What d’you normally do?” The man’s leaning against the low bookcase like he owns the place…which he kind of does.

“Well…” She shrugs, stretching the wings in discomfort at his strange interest in her after days of having avoided each other. “There was work, hanging out with Nina…uhm…sometimes finding a meal and having fun with that…” The last bit is purely added to gauge his reaction and it frustrates her when he doesn’t even blink at the words. “I spent a lot of time training and keeping taps on anything that could be a risk to me.”

Nodding, he mulls the information over for a moment. “What sorta training?”

“Anything possible. Combat, shooting, survival skills.” _And you’ve tasted the result of a bit of that._

As Dean turns and begins to walk away, she lets out a breath that she hadn’t even realized she was holding in, but then he calls for her to follow. _Why?_ Too curious to refuse, she trails after him past door after door the same way she’d tried to go after she’d been resurrected. They stop several paces before the place he’d come out of, entering instead through the door into a sort of corridor with separate counters on one side that each lends a view to the far end of the room where paper targets are hung and the concrete wall behind them are scarred from years of practice, though most shots must have been hits, judging by the remaining integrity.

“Private shooting range…neat.”

Already unsettled, the metallic clicking from a gun splits Leira’s heart, sending one part into her throat and another deep into her stomach. The feathers on her wings bristle and she’s grateful that the hunter can’t see it. _He’ll have to look me in the eyes at the very least_ , she decides in defiance, but she’s not prepared for what she sees when she turns to face the hunter. Standing stoically, Dean is holding the silvered gun by the barrel.

“Take it.” If he’s nervous about the situation then he hides it perfectly behind a crooked smile. “C’mon.”

Doing as told, Leira considers the likeliness that this is all just a test to see if she’ll turn against him. _It’s probably not even loaded._ As her fingers close around the mother of pearl handle she makes sure to keep the index finger off the trigger even if she lowers the gun as soon as he lets go. It’s a firearm made for people with bigger hands than hers and it rests heavily in her palm as she stabilizes the hold on it with the left hand.

“Why?”

Her question makes Dean arch a brow in amusement. “Curiosity.”

_To check or not to check…?_ Deciding not to, she turns to face the target, unleashing three shots in rapid succession that makes the room echo and her stare wide-eyed in surprise because nothing about the man had made her think he’d trust her with a loaded gun. Minuscule flakes of paper are drifting towards the floor from the target’s head where three perforations are grouped closely together. The Nephion places the weapon on the narrow counter with a subtle clank. Breathing in, the gunpowder burns the nostrils, making the woman want to sneeze as it drowns out the dust and Dean’s musk saturating the air.

“You’re a good shot.” Dean admits, angling past her to grab the gun.

Sizing him up, she can’t hold back. “Did I pass your other test too?”

The low chuckle confirms the lingering suspicion. “For now.” A couple of shots ring deafeningly, adding to the Swizz-cheese effect on the target. “But don’t for one second think I trust you.”

“Likewise.” The tension as they look at each other could make the air crackle with electricity and causes Leira lash out verbally. “Anything else? Want me to lie down and roll over?”

Lightning fast, each movement as smooth as silk, he’s got her pushed against the cold concrete with an elbow resting against the woman’s throat and it’s all she can do not to fight back. He notices that. _Of course, he does._ Baring the teeth in a wicked grin, the hunter silently dares her to make a move and give him an excuse, proof that she can’t be left walking around, and she settles for balling her fists at her sides.

“He’s really got you tamed, doesn’t he?” The Nephion refuses to answer. “If you even _think_ of hurting my brother –“

“Then you’ll have me killed…again?” The sneer earns her some added pressure to the throat.

Dean shakes his head slowly. “Didn’t work out so well last time…guess I’ll have to think of something else.”

And just like that he pushes off and marches out of the room, leaving her leaning against the wall and shaking with anger. _That fucking jerk!_ White-hot frustration is roiling through the veins and she rams a fist against the opposite wall with a roar, creating a dense cloud of dust that obscures everything within it. It hurts like shit, but she’ll heal soon enough. Only as the grey grains settle down once more can she see the hole she’s punched through the concrete.

“Oh, fucking _Hell_!”

Not only is this going to get Leira in trouble, but she’s going to have to clean it up and repair it. _At least I got something to do._


	18. Not all that

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made I bit of a change from how it is in the series orginally to amplify the issues in the various relationships.

Leira has gotten surprisingly little grief for the remodeling of the shooting range. If anything, really, it seems like Dean’s reconsidering his chances against her and it makes him more diplomatic, even if he still prefers to avoid her like the plague. Castiel is rarely around, but when he does show up it doesn’t involve misunderstood attempts at bonding anymore which makes it easier to be in a room with him despite the random questions about her physiology or needs (he’s been particularly fascinated by the fact that she still likes to eat, even if it doesn’t seem to be necessary).

Another woman has been spending time in the bunker too, though granted complete freedom, and it only took one look at her for the Nephion to figure out that it’s the boys’ mother, Mary Winchester, who came back from the dead not long before Sam and Dean went hunting for Nina. But family or not, the mother has been restless, wandering the hallways at night like some harmless ghost and putting Leira on edge.

One night, while in the library, Leira has finished leafing through a volume from a series about sigils and runes and their uses against the supernatural when the sound of footsteps approaches. Straightening up, she spots the blond Winchester-woman heading towards the metal staircase that leads up to the exit.

“Another restless night…?”

The words make Mary stop dead in her tracks, tucking a duffel bag behind her as she turns to face the speaker. “Yeah, just needed some fresh air.” The smile doesn’t reach the light blue eyes.

“No worries.” Leira shrugs. “Besides…it’s healthy to see the world.”

She hadn’t expected the sigh from the female hunter. “Yeah…healthy…” the voice trails off into a whisper, then she straightens up. “Tell them not to worry. I’ll be in touch.”

With that, she leaves the Nephion to wonder how on earth she’s going to get the two sons to believe that story.

…

Mary’s room has been cleaned out. Left as if no one had even stayed, instigating unwelcomed thoughts that maybe she’d never been there at all, that it had just been some dream to torment him, and Dean has to do his best to keep his head on straight. _I’m not going crazy._ Sammy has been a help in the sense that he too is bummed about their mom leaving…even if he doesn’t seem to mind as much as he should.

“C’mon, Dean!” The younger brother sounds exasperated. “Can you blame her? She’s probably trying to get her bearings after coming back.”

Sam’s sitting backwards on a kitchen chair, casually chewing on his breakfast as if nothing has happened and it’s the most normal thing that a mother ups and leaves without a word after having been brought back from the dead.

“How can you be so fucking calm?!” Pulling his hands through the short hair, Dean begrudgingly admits to himself that it’s probably a good thing, otherwise he’d have jumped into the Impala and driven off after her. “ _We’re_ supposed to help her! That’s what _family_ does!”

His shouting must have drawn the attention of their freak pet, because the woman appears silently in the doorway, watching the scene unfold. Under normal circumstances, her presence would be enough for Dean to shut up. Not this time.

“We’re her _kids,_ goddamnit!”

“Yeah, Dean, we are. Her _grown up_ kids.” Sam finally puts his sandwich down. “Listen, mom’s gonna be fine…she probably just needs to figure things out.”

“She said she’ll be in touch.”

Leira’s voice makes them both look up at her. Her face is partially hidden in the shadows, making it impossible for the hunters to get a clear idea of whether or not she’s lying, but Dean can see how his brother is ready to just roll over and take that _thing’s_ assurance for granted.

“You spoke with her?” It’s all Dean can do not to go for her throat. “Why the _fuck_ didn’t you come to us straight away?”

His little brother gets to his feet, making him anything but little in the physical sense. “Dean…”

“No! Damnit!” The distance to the Nephalem is quickly covered and he gets in her face. “Did…you…talk with her?”

She doesn’t flinch at the proximity. “Yeah.” The voice is perfectly smooth. “And I didn’t tell you because _she_ isn’t your prisoner and _I’m_ not your guard dog.” She shifts her focus to Sam. “She didn’t say where she’s going, just that you shouldn’t worry and that she’ll be in touch.”

“Thank you.”

Dean glares at his brother, a new hot wave of anger rolling through him from hearing him talk like that to the bitch of an abomination. “You’ve gotta be kidding me…you’re gonna thank that thing now for keeping _secrets_ from us?” Rounding on Leira again, he grabs her by the arm. “I swear, I’m _this_ close to tying you up and going another round on you. Hell, it’s what you deserve anyways, you fucking freak.” He notices the twitch of her lips and begs silently for her to make a move. “I dunno about you, Sammy, but I’m gonna try and find mom.”

And with that he storms out, determined to call every single motel in the country to find where she might be staying.

…

The words have cut deeper than Leira would have expected. All her life, she’s known that she’s an abomination, a (quote-unquote) freak. But it still hurts to hear those words from someone she’s supposed to trust with her life. _Just breathe. Just breathe._

Leira’s just about to turn back the way she came, when Sam calls out for her. “I’m sorry about what he said…he’s just upset.”

She keeps her eyes on the floor. “He hasn’t said anything that isn’t true.” But still she has a lump in the throat that makes it hard to speak, and the only place she wants to be is back in her room (or very far away). “Calling me a freak…abomination…whatever! Even if I haven’t done anything bad…the risk that I might is still there in his eyes.”

Sam’s scoff is closer than she had expected, reminding her once more that the man can move surprisingly quietly for someone his size. “Yeah, well…that can be said for all of us.” He’s standing right in front of her now, the heat from his body attempting to envelop her. “Hell, we’ve all got something on our conscience, but we try. We learn from it and we get better.”

There’s no need to look at the man because Leira already knows how his brows are pulled together and angling towards the hairline, how he licks his lips between each sentence as he searches for the right words. And what words they are. It might not be Shakespeare, but they’re plucked from his heart and soul, grown somewhere in his own past until they are powerful enough to break through the shield the woman has established over time.

“That’s a…a pretty good s-speech.” She tries to smile through the tears that unbiddenly are swelling in her eyes and making the world blurry.

Strong arms wrap carefully around her shoulders, one hand stroking Leira’s back, the other cupping the back of her skull to tug her against him…and she doesn’t fight it. She just folds into his embrace, reciprocating it, and allows the sadness to run its course while he rocks her gently, until eventually, there’s nothing but a clean, heavy, calm inside her. _Safe._ The word floats from the deep recesses of the mind, no longer an abstract idea that’s impossible to achieve, but a label for how she feels that very instant after decades of constant vigilance. _I’m safe._ The leaden tightness in her stomach and on her shoulders lessens, finally allowing her to breathe freely and savour the experience of being able to trust that maybe, just maybe, things won’t be too bad.

She doesn’t notice at first when his usually so serious lips touch the top of her head, pressing softly against Leira’s hair…but instincts take over when it does register with her and she breaks off the warm hug by pushing away from Sam. Her ribcage is too small, making it impossible to get enough air into the lungs. Her hands are suddenly clammy with sweat and she balls them into fists with the nails digging into her palms to prevent them from shaking.

“Wha-why? Are you insane?!” Without waiting for an answer, Leira turns on her heel and hightails it out of the kitchen, brushing past a startled Dean in the library on the way to the safety of her room.


	19. Snooping

Sam had tried to talk with Leira, but she refused to open the door or answer with more than one- or two-syllable words. The last contact had been to tell her the brothers are heading out for a hunt in Iowa and that Castiel will stop by at some point to check up on her. In exchange for that information, Leira may have been short-tempered, but she’s had a chance to cool down since then.

Wandering through the deserted rooms of the old Men of Letters base, she tries to detangle the mess of thoughts and feelings. The main problem is the lack of any proper knowledge about the Winchesters other than the stories she has heard through the grapevine via other monsters; rumours that she now has gotten verified in the most brutal way. To understand the brothers better, and anticipate their reactions to anything she might do, Leira needs to learn more.

First stop is room 11, Dean’s bedroom. It’s roughly the same size as her own and has the same concrete and brick walls, but the floor is covered in a wall to wall carpet in the same dreary colour scheme as anything else in the bunker. _Well…it doesn’t take the attention away from the decorations._ A long shelf above the bed (just like in her room) displays an interesting array of weapons and accessories to help deal with anything a hunter might face. The walls are mainly bare save for one with a collection that beats the one on the shelf. A few rifles and other ranged weapons are lined up around a black and jagged monstrosity of a one-hander. In a museum, this would have been the crowd-puller. Running a finger across the obsidian blade and bone handle, a cold shiver travels through her, pushing curiosity aside in favour of a desire to hurt and kill something. The sudden intense urge frightens Leira and she pulls the hand back sharply. _Wherever that’s from, it can’t have been a good place._ The old desk houses a few books tugged into a corner to make room for a small collection of LPs, mainly classic rock, that can shed a bit of light on Dean-the-man, rather than Dean-the-hunter; and next to a dusty typewriter is a faded photograph of Mary Winchester and a little boy. A year has been scribbled on the back with a pencil once, and the Nephion can barely make out ‘1983’, meaning the kid must be Dean.

_Where’s the rest?_ If this place really is the home of the brothers, then there should be items with affectional value. None of the desk drawers yield anything more exciting than pens and paper and it’s the same disheartening result after going through the contents of the dresser. The trend continues until Leira has checked every single place, only learning that the guy prefers big-boobed Asians…oddly none of them with black-feathered wings or trench coats.

She’s leafing through one of the lore books when she hears the sound of footsteps. _Castiel._ As expected, the angel looks personally offended when he finds her in Dean’s room.

“What are you doing?” The gravelly thunder of his voice fills the small place and his wings expand, passing unhindered through the walls.

Shrugging, she replaces the book only to look under the table (where a knife is taped on). “Just trying to learn more about your boyfriend and his brother.”

At first, it’s impossible to tell if Castiel is sputtering in protest of the relationship’s label or the research. “You should respect their privacy.”

Rounding on the divine being she can feel her own wings unfurl, the feathers bristling in indignant fury, but she manages to keep the voice calm. “Sure…just like they respected mine.”

…

“She’s what?!” Dean’s shout drowns out Metallica and makes his brother wince.

Sam had been on the phone with Castiel and hung up before telling Dean what was going on home in the bunker. Frankly the report had been better than expected, but of course that’s not what the older brother’s stuck on.

“It’s my stuff!” Still complaining, Dean has sped up, making the engine of the Impala roar with delight. “She’s got _no_ right! And you? How can you be so damn _chill_ about it?”

_Because we owe her some slack._ After everything they’ve put her through, it makes sense to Sam that the Nephion wants to learn anything she can about the hunters, but the arguments fall on deaf ears. Sure, Dean has been trying his best to be civil around Leira, almost only bitching about her when she’s been out of earshot although he doesn’t trust the woman and is absolutely furious that Chuck and Amara intervened without giving a proper explanation.

“I’m gonna kill her!” Dean sneers. “…again…”

“Yeah, no. You won’t.”

“Why’re you even defending her? All the freaking time you’ve been rooting for _her_.”

Holding a sigh back, Sam looks out at the drizzling rain that had set in an hour after they drove away from the farm. They’ve had that discussion many times already and apparently a ‘gut feeling’ and the capacity for sympathy aren’t enough to convince Dean. _The man hasn’t even tried to apologize._ A memory flashes painfully clear in Sam’s mind, reminding him that he has something to ask forgiveness for as well. He’d not meant anything bad by trying to comfort her, but Leira had taken it differently and all he can hope is that she will still trust them eventually.

“She might be a good hunter, though…” The comment brings Sam’s attention back into the car. “She can shoot. Fight. And she’s strong…you saw what she did to the wall.” Looking straight ahead at the road, Dean’s face looks carved in stone save for a curved brow that always has its own life when he’s thinking.

“You mean,” Sam begins slowly, his heart beating faster for some odd reason, “you’d be willing to bring her on a hunt?”

The older brother readjusts his position in the seat before finally shrugging. “I dunno. Maybe.”


	20. Of use

“I think…” Leira walks into the kitchen with her laptop in the hands, “I think I found something for you guys.”

Placing the laptop so they can see the screen, she explains about a series of disappearances and maulings just east of Moscow in Idaho while alt-tabbing between police reports, news articles, and social media.

“Could be a bear.”

The woman deadpans as she eyes Sam for encouragement. “Yes, Dean…but bears or other animals don’t take the provisions and gear too.”

He has to concede that she’s got a point. “Maybe a wayward wendigo. Well…gear up.”

“You want _me_ to come?” A boulder is trying to fly around like a butterfly inside her.

Dean nods. “You found it. Might as well take it down.”

…

They’d decided to do the drive in one go, assuming they will need time to gather as much information and rest before heading into the National Forest to hunt the monster down. The first part of the way, Dean had drilled the Nephion in some of the lore surrounding Wendigos and other monsters that might be to blame for the events they will be investigating. Once satisfied, he’d sunk back to his usual brooding silence, making any attempts at casual conversation awkward, so Sam had been happy when the two brothers switched, and the snoring erupted. That was a few hours ago.

Glancing in the rear-view mirror, Sam catches Leira’s dark, congnacish eyes before she looks away. Ever since his blunder in the kitchen, she’s avoided being alone around him and he hasn’t been able to find the right moment to say what he wants. _This is it._

“Hey, Leira, I uhm…” he licks his lips nervously, “about...about last week, I just wanted to s–”

Looking into the mirror, he’s startled to see that her face is inches from his neck. The Nephion is resting with her chin on arms that are crossed on top of the seat back and her hair is pulled together in a lose braid which allows only a few strands to fall in front of her forehead and nose, but it’s enough to make it hard to see what’s going on in her head.

“I know what you’re gonna say, but don’t sweat it.” They both glance over at Dean, who’s still snoring peacefully. “Y’were being nice to me and I freaked. Sorry.”

“O-kay.” This isn’t what Sam had expected. “Kinda pushed you, though. I mean…I guess you’re not used to having anyone to talk to and stuff…” The woman behind him are lost to the horizon. “But…you don’t have to be. Alone, I mean…with problems. We’ll help.”

A quiet, humourless laughter trickles from Leira’s lips. “ _You_ might. Maybe even Castiel. But not Dean…”

“He’ll come around.”

“Riiight.” The sarcasm in that single word is palpable. “I’m just here, because I might be useful and because he doesn’t want me snooping around.” With a sigh, the woman leans back and resumes watching the raindrops on the car window.

…

The motel looks questionable from the outside, but the room isn’t too shabby with the two single beds and a couch that can be folded out to sleep on; and the bathroom isn’t amazing, with the low shower head mounted on the wall, but it’s clean. Dean has insisted that they all three stay in the same room, no matter how much Sam tried to convince him otherwise, eventually forcing the girl to interrupt them and say she doesn’t mind bunking up. It’s too late to visit the sheriff’s office and the rangers, but that doesn’t mean they can relax for the rest of the evening. First stop is a photobooth, then Sam coaxes Leira along to get an outfit worthy of an FBI agent while Dean fixes an ID for her and finds addresses on witnesses and families left behind.

Now Leira’s picking at the diner food, accepting once again that her need for a meal fit for humans has remained dead…and even if it hadn’t then the oldest hunter’s eating habits would have put her off anyways. Whatever he stuffs into his face is still on display half of the time until he swallows.

Trying to distract herself from a slight nausea, Leira turns to Sam who’s been leafing through an old notebook. “So…you’ve faced a wendigo before?”

“Yeah…” he admits without looking up, “in Blackwater Ridge. Must be more than ten years ago now.”

Somehow, Dean manages to swallow a huge chunk of burger without choking. “It’d get active roughly every 23 years, hibernating in between.”

“And you burned that one…” The girl pushes her plate away. “How about decapitation? Or my blade?”

Spinning the journal around and pointing to the scribbles, Sam begins to explain how normal weapons inflict a minimum of damage (if any), but he admits that they’ve never had the chance to try with an angel blade. Last time, they’d used a flare gun which is why they’ve always been packing them since then.

“Gonna eat that?” The older hunter eyes Leira’s abandoned dinner greedily and he takes it without a ‘thank you’ when she pushes it closer to him.

Anasazi symbols are gracing the pages of the journal with comments on how to use them as wards against a Wendigo. _Fire and warding._ The strengths of the creature are numerable compared to the weaknesses.

…   …

Dean eyes the Nephion over his shoulder. “Just let us do the talking, ‘kay?”

All kitted out and ready to visit the parents, who have lost both their children to the beast in the forest, the trio walks up to the front door of a house painted in the hues of mossy greens and white. Everything about the exterior screams model citizens, from the weed-free flowerbeds to the trimmed lawn, and when the door opens it reveals a couple that could have been taken straight from a Hollywood production…if it wasn’t for the puffy eyes of the wife and the grim pursing of the husband’s lips.

“Sorry to bother you, we’re with the FBI. I’m agent Page, these are agents Smith and Rivera.”

No outsider stands a chance at calling Sam’s bluff and it only takes a minute more before he’s gotten them access to the home and they are seated in the lounge with a cup of coffee each, listening to the distraught parents. They had allowed their kids to go camping alone for the first time, on condition of staying in touch by phone calls each evening.

“They didn’t call Saturday,” the mother’s voice quivers as she tries to keep a grip of herself, “and they didn’t answer afterwards. That’s when…that’s when we _knew_ some-something was wro-ong.”

The husband takes over, allowing the woman to sob into her hands. Quietly, as if it would ease the mother’s distress, he explains about past trips and the kids’ prowess in the wilderness. Meanwhile, because Leira’s role is the quiet one, she uses each chance she gets to study the place, and as a cat enters the living room, nudging the door to the adjoining room up first, she notices a peculiar shadow. Getting up, she walks over and glances into what appears to be a den or study, spotting the owner of the shade immediately. _That’s…big._ A taxidermy monstrosity of a grizzly is tugged into the corner by the window, and on the low pedestal it’s mounted on is a brass tag naming the dead beast ‘The Mankiller – 1968’.

“Sir?” Leira rejoins the others, wary of any protesting looks from Dean and Sam, “I’m sorry for asking this, but the grizzly in the other room…can you tell me a bit about it?”

“My father-in-law shot it, back in ‘68.” Glancing confused at the brothers, he feels encouraged to go on. “There’d been a-a string of maulings…kinda like now, actually. All the hunters in town pitched in to track the beast down ‘fore it could do more damage.”

Dean casts a quick look towards the other room. “Did it work?”

The husband nods.

“So, no incidents before or after that…” Leira presses, “…except this season?”

Both monster-hunters know what the Nephion’s getting at and wait silently for an answer. An answer they already know what will be; and ten minutes later they’re out on the street again, debating what to do next.

…

It has been a piece of cake for the two brothers to get the rangers to divulge the locations of the camps that have been hit. Now, the three odd teammates are making their way through the forest in the last few hours of sunlight, hoping to reach the first spot before it gets too dark. Each is carrying his or her own gear, complete with provisions and weapons.

Glancing at his phone, Sam points ahead along the trail. “Should be just a mile or two more.”

“Good.” There’s something in the air that makes the hairs on Leira’s arms stand up.

“Tired of hiking?” Dean pushes past her with an annoying smirk plastered on his face. “I’m not gonna carry you.”

_I could just flash there. Leave your sorry ass behind…aaand leave a nice trail of energy behind for others to follow._ Glancing at the younger brother, she catches him looking away hurriedly. “What?”

“Nothing!” A slight blush crawls over his face and throat, so she keeps glaring until he caves. “He’s…warming up to you, that’s all. You’re helping, working. He respects that.” Then he too trudges past her.

Following the men, Leira doesn’t have to worry about the path, leaving her free to study the surroundings. The unusually silent surroundings. Pushing a few branches aside where Sam has disappeared through a thicket of spruce, she finds herself on what’s left of a campsite. The tent’s shredded, and broken gear is littering the place, here and there decorated with rust-coloured patches from where the blood has landed and dried. The smell of blood is only noticeable to the Nephion and she tries to breathe through the mouth and keep her back to the guys in an effort to hide and lessen the discomfort from the throbbing fangs.

Silently setting to work, they each tend to their own tasks. Sam’s walking around the area, drawing patterns on the ground with a stick to create a ward against the Wendigo, while Dean’s looking through each item left behind by the campers. Moving quickly, Leira collects kindling and dry wood enough for a campfire and is about to light it when the hunters join her.

“Let me give you a ha–“ There’s no need for Dean to finish the sentence as tiny flames start to eat the thin twigs and dried lichen.

Chuckling lightly, Sam tries to divert his brother’s attention. “How many were here?”

“Five, looks like.”

That means it’s where the second group got attacked. A bunch of college students on a weekend trip and with lots of life left to live if they’d chosen to go anywhere else than here. Looking around, the Nephion can see the signs of struggle and realizes that the chances of findings any of the young people alive will be close to none. Too much prey to deal with unless they have been instantly killed.

“So, what’s it gonna be? Baked beans and spam? Oooor…” Dean rummages around in the backpack before pulling out another can, “spaghetti with meat sauce?”

Sam votes for the spaghetti and soon the campsite is drenched in the smell of cheap canned food, but at least it’s overpowering the dried blood. For the first time since arriving, Leira’s able to push away the thought of warm, sweet liquid gushing into her mouth and she settles down on a log next to the fire. The flames are illuminating the hunters’ faces on the other side of the illuminated circle, but beyond that only darkness is reigning. _Moon will rise soon._ Looking up, the faint dots of stars can be seen over the black silhouettes of the trees and under normal circumstances she’d expect to hear the sounds of nocturnal animals. There’s nothing.

“Here.” Sam has managed to sneak up on her and he’s holding a bowl with food and a spork out to her.

Managing a smile, she shakes her head. “Not hungry, but thanks.”

“You gotta eat _something_.” He sits on the log and peers closely at her face. “I saw how you skipped breakfast too…after giving up your dinner to Dean last night.”

The large man is so close, she can hear his heartbeat not to mention enjoy the unique scent of soap and herbs that she’s starting to associate with him. _Herbs. Sweet. Metallic._ The memory makes Leira’s throat dry and causes her fangs to throb again and she looks into the darkness of the forest to avoid his gaze.

“I _said_ , I’m not hungry.”

“Yo, bloodsucker.” She can hear Sam scoff at his brother’s words. “When _did_ you last eat a real meal?”

Silence drags by as they wait for her to answer, until finally a warm hand finds hers. Strong fingers with callouses, but gentle to avoid startling the girl. “Leira…”

“The night you…when I was your prisoner.”

The whisper is loud enough to be heard on the other side of the fire, making Dean straighten up. “And have you drunk anyone since…y’know…?”

She shakes the head. It’s been almost three weeks, but she has no clue when or if she’ll need to feed again. Leira had been tempted to get a liquid snack at the diner, and later at the motel she’d considered popping out for a quick bite, but both times a sense of betrayal had kept her from it.

“I’m not about to ju–“ A rustling in the leaves interrupts her. “It’s here.”

“Could just be a fox or something.” Still, Dean pulls out his flare gun and a machete.

_Fuck, humans are stupid_ , she groans internally. “This entire area’s vacated, save for us.”

Pulling out the angel blade, Leira bends to pick up a thick branch from the fire before turning around to face the darkness. The sound of soft footsteps on dry pine needles and moss on one side precedes a soft growl from the other, then a twig snaps somewhere else. All three are standing with their backs to the fire, trying to penetrate the night and make out the being that’s circling the camp. _It’s fast._

“Don’t worry, it won’t get past the warding.”

Glancing over at Sam, she’s surprised that _he_ is the one to look nervous. “Good. Stay here, I’ll see if I can get closer to it.”

“No!” Both brothers are looking at her as if she’s stupid.

With a crooked smile, Leira realizes that they must care for her to some extend…even Dean. “That’s sweet, boys. But we need to injure it…make it retreat.” With a smirk, she hands the torch to the older of the two hunters. “And we both know _I’m_ the better fighter.”

Without further ado the woman turns away, slinking into the blackness of the undergrowth.

…

Glancing over at Sammy, Dean can see how worried his little brother is. Meanwhile, he himself is pissed off at the idiot bloodsucker who apparently thinks she can one-up him anytime. Unfortunately, she’s right: they do need to use the Wendigo to find its lair, because that’s where the disappeared campers will be if they still are alive.

“Don’t worry, Sammy.” Reaching up to squeeze the other guy’s shoulder, Dean begrudgingly admits the woman isn’t half bad. “She’s tough.”

They hear a snarl from somewhere outside the safe bubble circle followed closely by a bloodcurdling scream that has Sam hurrying in the direction it came from, and it’s with the tip of his fingers that Dean manages to grab his brother’s sleeve. He doesn’t have to say anything, they both know how Wendigos can mimic the voices of humans to lure more victims away from safety.

“Help me!” Leira’s cry comes from far away, weak and full of fear. But then they hear her again much closer. “No DON’T!”

Minutes pass with only the occasional rustle and muted growl. _I wish I could see what’s going on._ Not knowing is always the worst part of a hunt for Dean. Hell, being in a fight face to face with a murderous monster can be exhilarating or even fun at times. Normally _he_ would be the one to sneak out and track the damned thing instead of standing around waiting and second guessing.

A shrill whining rings through the forest and then there’s nothing but silence. _Did she get it?_ Glancing around, the shadows stand out sharper on the ground, making it easier to see past the circle from the firelight too. He looks up for confirmation that the halfmoon has broken free of the treetops.

“Your food’s gonna get burned.”

The female voice nearly makes both men piss their pants and they spin around to face the speaker. There she is, the Nephion, standing by the log and wiping the triangular blade in a rag that once was an unfortunate camper’s t-shirt. An angry red streak along her cheek is sealing itself as they stare at her.

“Eat up, douse the fire, then we go?” She smiles, reclaiming the spot where she was sitting earlier.


	21. Tracking

Following the trail of blood isn’t as difficult as the hunters first had feared, and on the stretches without that to go by they use the broken branches and claw marks as indicators. Leira’s in the lead now, using the heightened senses her heritage has granted her, and sometimes she’ll whisper comments about the smells or sounds. It’s less than a mile since she’s started saying that they’re getting close, but so far, they only have her word for it.

Mounting a ridge, a ruin of a cabin comes into view. It’s overgrown by vines and bushes and a large oak is pushing it sideways off the foundations, making the wooden walls crack and bend ominously. No one in their right mind would stay in there. Glancing over at his brother and the Nephion, Sam accepts that this is the place and he follows them down the hill, weapons at the ready. Circling the shabby building first, the trio makes sure that there aren’t any hidden monsters outside, and once they are satisfied they sneak in. All of them have to duck to get through the crooked doorframe where the hinges are holding on desperately to a few broken boards. In the glares of the flashlights and the one torch, he sees the deep grooves from claws and the scattered remains of furniture and bones. _Human bones._

“There.”

Dean’s waving the torch towards a corner of the room, illuminating everything but a dark hole wide enough for two to descend side by side. A low growl escapes Leira as she inhales sharply and for a second it looks like her canines are growing into fangs, but she turns away before Sam can see for certain. Using a rope, the guys fashion a simple ladder by tying knots along the part that’ll be hanging into the pit, and then they secure the other end safely around an invading branch from the oak tree. The woman has taken the torch and now she drops it into the darkness below, watching it land a second later on dry dirt. Catching Sam’s gaze, she flashes him a fanged smile before stepping into empty air, taking nothing with her but her weapons.

…

They’re standing beside her in a narrow tunnel with only one way to go. This time Dean spearheads the advance, peaking around each corner before allowing the other two to follow. The ground’s surprisingly even, and generally speaking, there’s enough room even for Sam to stand up fully as long as he watches out for roots from trees up above. Sometimes they pass dark recesses which prove to be empty save for discarded bones and gear belonging to the wendigo’s many victims. _Some of this is as old as me,_ Leira realizes with a shudder. The monster has been around for a long time, preying on humans every quarter century without getting caught. Quietly, she hurries after the guys, walking silently in the footprints left in the dry dirt. Each movement stirs air that’s been hanging immobile since last someone passed and it brings a variety of smells with it: dust, ground, and the sickening odour of decay among them.

“Which way?” The light from Sam’s flashlight extends down first one tunnel then another.

Both ways seem to have been used recently, but it’s impossible to tell which will leave them to the victims or the target…or maybe a trap. Wendigos aren’t mindless beasts. They are intelligent, cunning enough to apply tactics in a hunt, and the idea of splitting up to cover more ground isn’t exactly appealing.

Taking a few steps forward into the left tunnel, Leira breathes in deep. _Nothing fresh._ Repeating the maneuver in the right tunnel wields different result. There’s a tiniest hint of something sweet and metallic in the air, making the monster in her become impatient. _Fresh blood._

“This way.” The Nephion’s whisper is muffled by the fangs that she tries to hide behind tight lips.

They don’t question her instinct. The short-haired brother just pushes past, keen on finding the thing and destroy it, but Sam hesitates and looks questioningly a Leira, a heavy hand brushing warm against her upper back as if to comfort her. The changing eyes are asking if she’s okay and she just nods before heading off the way Dean has gone. Each step brings them closer to the source of the blood-scent. Each step makes her fangs hurt, and she’s unable to retract them anymore even if she can beat down the urge to feed.

A whisper-shout comes from past a corner up ahead. “Guys!” Dean urges.

Rounding the bend, they’re at the end of the tunnel in a larger room with alcoves dug into the walls. There’s no sign of the wendigo itself, but several figures have been stashed on each their own ‘shelf’, tied down securely, and gagged with scraps of clothes or old ropes. The smell of blood and death is overpowering, making the nephion stumble backwards into the dirt wall, knocking loose a shower of dust, and even the hunters stagger at the sight. Sam’s face has been drained of any colour. Dean’s mouth is set with lips pressed tightly together. Seven bodies. Staring at one of the alcoves, Leira has to correct he initial count to six and a half.

Always the practical one, the oldest man recovers quickly. “Check for survivors.”

It’s silent work that yields depressing results because only one person is still alive. It’s a boy, and maybe under all the dirt it could look like the youngest child of the couple they had visited. After freeing him, Sam scoops the kid up and turns to get out of the underground prison, only waiting for Dean to get in front with a light.

“Wait…” She can’t quite put her finger on it, but whatever it is, it makes her want to stay away from the tunnel even if it’s the only way out.

Letting out an exasperated sigh, Dean turns. “What? Are ya kidding me? We need t’ get the kid _outta_ _here_ and find a monster to kill, damnit!”

As he’s complaining, a pale figure emerges from the darkness behind him. Its naked, disfigured body is mainly skin and bones with the long limbs ending in sharp talon-like claws.

Sam’s already raising his flare gun, despite the weight in his arms. “Dean! Down!”

Without question, the hunter throws himself onto the ground just in time to avoid both the sputtering and smoking projectile and a dangerous swipe from the beast. Blinking against the harsh light, Leira can see that it’s not the wendigo that got hit, but the wall just next to it before it takes off into the darkness with a bone-chilling snarl.

“You okay?”

Sam’s crouching next to his brother who’s examining the lacerated leather of his jacket’s shoulder. “Son-of-a-bitch, that was my fave!”

_Waste of time._ “He’s fine, just ‘s pride got hurt.” Stooping, she picks up the torch. “Let’s go.”

Sure, the guy’s grumbling and complaining as they begin to follow the same path as the beast, but at least he has the smarts to do so under his breath.

…

She’s leading them on fast but still checking each shadow carefully until they reach the place where the tunnels branches off. Flipping the angel blade over in her hand, Leira nods sideways towards the wall, indicating that something’s on the other side of it. Each flare gun only has one shot and Dean’s the only who’s got a guaranteed efficient weapon left now, which he’s gripping tightly. With a sweeping motion, the woman sends the torch around the corner following closely behind, ready for anything that might come at her. It’s a good thing, considering the cannibalising monster lunges at the first living thing it sees. For a second, both non-humans are too fast to offer a safe target, and Sam’s heart nearly drops when it looks like it’s gotten Leira in a crushing grip, but somehow, she avoids it, rolling between the gnarly legs to pop up behind the wendigo. There’s a glint of metal in the flickering light from the torch and flashlights, then the monster unfolds to its full height as it screams. Something pushes Sam aside and he’s vaguely aware of Dean’s figure in the periphery before the sizzling projectile finds its target, lodging itself inside the beast’s chest and bringing on a combustive death.

Taking the boy from Sam, Dean has already dropped the hunter mode. “Man, I wish it’d smell of bacon instead.”

“Why not pie, while you’re dreaming?” Sam’s stepping around the burning corpse that’s looking more and more human. Leira’s leaning against the hardpacked earth of the wall, wiping the blade down before tugging it into her boot. “You okay?”

“Peachy.” The answer is huffed past the curtain of dark hair that has gotten lose during the struggle.


	22. Aftermath

The parents had been overjoyed to have at least one of the kids back and the local authorities had made sure to get statements from the three rescuers and the coordinates to the old cabin. Even if it was only a recovery operation, no one wanted to wait longer. The dead have waited long enough, and the families need closure.

_‘Not bad for a first hunt’._ Dean’s words are on repeat in Leira’s head as they head back to the motel. Of course, the guys are hungry, but after having been in the tunnels they’ve conceded that showers might be necessary before they’ll get let in at the diner or bar. Once in their room, a short round of rock-paper-scissors determines who gets to clean up first, and to celebrate the victory, Dean raids the minibar, bringing the tiny bottles of whiskey with him.

Plopping onto the bed, Sam stretches his impressive six feet and four inches with a satisfied groan. “Can’t believe how long that thing’d been out there.”

“Yeah, and no one’d seen the pattern.”

Leira’s perched herself on the couch and is peeling aside the jacket and shirt before lifting the top gingerly free of the right side of the ribcage. _Sloppy._ The wendigo managed to slash through all the layers, leaving four deep gashes. At least the bleeding has stopped, but they’re still open and tender and the healing process is dragging the nephion closer to feeding time. _Maybe we’ll pass a town with a blood bank on the way home?_

Dean’s distorted warbling (‘…another plaaace….where the faces are sooo cooold I drive aaall niiight…’) through the bathroom door makes Sam shout for the brother to shut up. When that doesn’t help he gets up to hammer on the flimsy barrier only resulting in more volume.

“Jerk.” He mumbles, but as Sam turns he eyes the gaps in the top that Leira hastily has pulled down again. “You’re hurt?!”

Taking a place in front of her on the coffee table, he motions for her to show. She holds on tightly to the hem of the top, snarling at him to quit worrying until his hand slips past her guard and accidentally hits the wound, making her wince. From somewhere under the furrowed brows shines emotions that Leira still isn’t used to. Baffled, she leans back and pulls the top upwards to reveal the lacerations.

“See? They’re healing.”

She can’t make out the man’s face as he bends closer to examine the mess. Fingertips gently probes the surrounding tissue to test the swelling or ensure that there aren’t deeper-lying injuries like broken ribs. It sets off a wave of goosebumps and a slightly nauseating tension in her guts that has absolutely nothing to do with the pain and everything to do with the owner of the big hands that are stroking her skin lightly. _Stop it. Stop it. Stop it!_

“Why aren’t you healed already?”

She looks down onto the soft brown hair, trying to remember how to form a sentence. “Uhm…might need a drink, y’know.” In fact, Leira knows that _is_ what’s needed and the memories of the last time she fed are flowing through her mind. _Herbs and spices mixed with the sweet metallic twang._ “Don’t s’pose there’s a clinic or something nearby?”

“No.” Getting up, it only takes a few steps to bring him to the bed where the duffel bag he brought is lying. It takes a moment as he rummages around to find what he’s looking for: a first aid kit and a knife. “The way I see it you got two options…either we patch you up and you’ll have to stay in control ‘til we can get you ehm…provisions.” The way he says it, it almost sounds normal. “Or you drink.” Deadpanning through a new pause, he makes sure to have eye contact before adding two words. “From me.”

In the bathroom, Dean has worked his way to the chorus of a new song and the comparisons of a woman to a pie and the steady splashing of the shower water are the only sounds to disturb Leira’s speculations. _A test, that’s what it is._ Her scoff dies pitifully when Sam remains stone faced, his grey eyes dragging the breath from the nephion’s lungs and sending it far away. She feels like shouting at him, to yell that there are other options when they’re in a town with a bar. _Yeah, but he’s a hunter._ He’d never let her pick another prey, risking someone else’s life. Leira has only just opened the mouth to complain when Dean steps out of the bathroom, wearing nothing but a towel slung low around his hips and hair still dripping.

A broad smile fades at the sight of the scene. “What the fuck’s going on here?”

“She’s hurt.” Not taking his eyes of her, Sam gestures with the knife towards the wound.

“She can heal.” _At least big brother isn’t fussing._

A slight tremor puts and edge to the self-proclaimed meal’s voice. “Yeah, but she’s not ‘cause she needs to feed.”

“Tough luck, we’re not packing any bags…”pausing to scrutinize Leira’s face for any signs of loss of control, he shrugs, “maybe someone has a horse or another large animal.”

“Okay! First off…‘ _she’_ is sitting right here and can hear you and answer for herself!” Pushing to her feet, the nephion has to hold back a groan. “Secondly…I’ve got standards and I ain’t biting into _anything_ with four legs or a tail or _what_ ever!”

She has to give the men credit: they don’t even flinch at her outburst and Dean even looks like it’s one of the most hilarious things he’s ever been part of. “Yeah well, sweet cheeks, you’re one step from getting tied up to make sure you don’t go hunting.”

“Fuck. You.” Leira snarls, her fangs flashing. ”You’ve got _no_ right to hold me back or starve me, you bitch.”

The bright smile is infuriating. “Bite me.” Frowning, Dean reconsiders for a heartbeat. “Wait no, I take that back…you actually might.”

“As I said…I have standards.”

The scathing remark merely makes Dean chuckle as he pulls out clothes and the few weapons he always carries from his bag. Mimicking his brother, Sam puts both knife and first aid kit down and starts finding his own fresh clothes as the men exchange mumbled remarks.

Moments later, it’s the tall guy showering (probably having to kneel to fit under the showerhead) while the older one is relaxing on the end of the bed, gun within reach to remind Leira what the deal is: no skipping out to hunt. _Fine._ Leaning back, she can look up at the water-stained ceiling. _Maybe…?_ Breathing out slowly through the nose, the hybrid tries to let go of the pain and gnawing hunger that’s crawling towards her head and making her cranky. About a month ago she was still going about her old life, nicely tugged away under the radar. She’d thought things were troublesome because she always had to look over the shoulder, but this? This is so much worse.

Tilting her head, she looks over at Dean who just smiles and wiggles the eyebrows. _The jerk has no shame._ But his borderline lewd staring inspires the demonic side of her. Struggling a bit, Leira manages to get out of the jacket and shirt, tossing the ruined rags into the corner without a second look at the hunter. She’s just debating how far she’ll take it when the water stops running in the bathroom. Leaning down, she unties the boots and wrenches them off, well aware that the crouched position lends a perfect view to the cleavage, and maybe it’s just wishful thinking but she’ll swear that his breathing picks up a notch. Quickly toeing the socks off, Leira gets to her feet to dump them in her backpack, making her stand facing away from Dean where she can pull the top off, gently lifting it past the gashes. It only takes a moment before she can let it fly, landing with the other bloody clothes just as the bathroom door opens. Smirking, Dean excuses himself before rushing out of the room.

“Did I…did I interrupt uhm…something?” Sam’s pointedly looking anywhere but at Leira and his knuckles are white from the firm grip he has on the dirty clothes. He’d been smart enough to get dressed in the bathroom.

Unzipping her pants, the woman pulls them down and steps out of them. “Not as far as I know. Why?” Walking over, she strokes his arm softly, fighting to keep the hand steady. “Would it have bothered you?”

“I what no I mean it’s not…” He’s barely breathing as he tries to keep stock still. “Hrrm! Shower’s…all yours.”

_Almost too easy_ , the sight of the reddening skin-colour makes the nephion smile. “Help patch me up, when I’m done?”

…

Staring at the closed door, Sam isn’t entirely sure what to think. He _is_ sure, though, that he shouldn’t have had the urge to punch something when he walked in on his big brother staring appreciatively at Leira. _Anyone would._ Unclenching his fists, he packs the dirty clothes away while the thoughts are milling through his head accompanied by the image of the woman. He’d always been bothered by women playing their sexuality because they think it’s all they’ve got as leverage, and this time…well, this woman should _know_ that she’s more than just a nice piece of meat. _Not that I’ve looked at…oh crap._ In an effort to think of something else, Sam prepares for the bit of first aid he’s been tasked to handle, while going through the little they’ve learned about the hybrid’s healing and feeding. The two are connected, obviously, to the point where Leira can exhaust herself, like when she passed out back in the bunker or now where her hands are shaking. She’s been trying to hide it, but he’s noticed. Maybe that’s the first sign? Looking at the bandages and gauze on the table, the hunter reaches a decision.

…

The scent is heavy and sweet in the air and hits Leira like a sledgehammer the moment she exits the steamy bathroom, making her stumble. Steadying herself against the wall, her gaze zeroes in on a plastic glass standing on the table. _Blood._ The deep red liquid is still warm and hasn’t even begun to dry on the edge where a few drops are clinging on as attempted individualists rather than being part of the masses below.

“Go ahead.” Sam’s sitting on the couch, smoothing down the last medicinal tape across the forearm. “Can’t have you puking or passing out on us.”

All instincts are rushing to the surface, making Leira skittish as she nears the table and snatches the drink. Once it’s safely in her hand, she darts into a corner by one of the beds to put as much distance as possible between her and Sam, but even then, she doesn’t take her eyes off him. _Thought so._ Herbs and spices are rolling across her tongue, wrapped in warm silk and the metallic sweetness that nothing else has. The glass is empty too soon and she resorts to swiping a finger around the inside to get the last few drops that her body so badly needs to heal. To regain strength. _Not enough._ Pulling an index finger free from between the lips, she pins the hunter with a stare. He’s the source of this delicious meal and there’s more where it came from. Somewhere in the dark recesses of her brain, logic is trying to get her attention. Leira _knows_ that she can go for a few days now. She _knows_ that she must hold back. Drawing on years of experience, the nephion calms down and reclaims control.

“Thank you.” Speaking is easier when the fangs are retracted…not to mention that she doesn’t risk biting her own lip.

Despite letting out a sigh of relief, Sam doesn’t quite relax. “You’re welcome…I can see it uhm helped…”

It’s true. The gashes are gone, leaving only four red stripes as if normal nails had grazed the skin. Leaving the safety of the corner, the woman walks over to pick a top from the luggage, Sam’s gaze burning on her skin the entire time, even when she’s dressed again.

“Y’know…I’ve never drank someone twice.” Glancing over at him just in time to see him look away, she feels the effects of the blood. “Always stuck to…well…one-night stands. I’d no idea you wanted to go steady.”

Squirming uncomfortably, the gentle giant busies himself with packing away the stuff he’s used to patch the wound from the bloodletting and doing his best not to look in Leira’s direction. Quietly, they prepare to go out and find Dean and celebrate a successful hunt.


	23. On drinking

The mood in the bunker has lifted considerably since Dean, Sam, and Leira have come back from the wendigo-hunt, even if at least one of the hunters still has a hard time accepting his mother’s decision. Mary’s rarely in touch, if ever, and the best way to distract Dean is by finding something for him to hunt down. Sometimes the brothers let Leira come along, the only requirements being that it doesn’t involve demons or angels, which is fine with the nephion. Just like Mary, Crowley and Castiel are never around either which means the hybrid is left completely alone on the occasions the guys go without her. It’s at one of these solo-times, where Leira’s looking for potential cases online, that the metal door grinds open to let in Sam and Dean.

“Guess what?!” The latter is beaming, clearly pleased with how the trip has gone. “I killed Hitler!”

It requires a proper explanation, which the bowlegged hunter gladly gives over celebratory beers and whiskey, before Leira fully can appreciate the dark forces behind the entrapment of the former Führer’s soul in a pocket watch.

“That…is _officially_ the most kick-ass thing you’ve _ever_ done, and I wish I’d been there to see it.” She raises her bottle at the man. “Fuck, I still remember the bastard. He’d a special taskforce for ‘nything supernat’ral and tracking down monsters…he hoped some would actually work _with_ him.”

“And…?” Sam’s interest has been peaked.

Shrugging, the woman fidgets with the feathers on a wing. “Some did and not just demons, though technically they were probably manipulating _him_ more than the other way around. The rest of us stayed outta their way.”

Downing the last drops of beer, she places the empty bottle on the table. Leira’s hands have begun shaking again, but she doesn’t want to call attention to the promise the hunters had made before taking off. Still, they notice. Pulling a plastic package out of a bag, Dean tosses it to her. _Unlabelled? Oh, well._ One of the kitchen drawers contains a stash of straws and it only takes a light stab with a knife before she can insert the thin tube.

Leira barely manages to get to the sink before spitting the mouthful of blood out again. It’s awful, the taste laced with fear and forced donation, but the worst is the gag-inducing, rotten bitterness of stale animal. Scrambling wildly, the nephion manages to get her hands on the rum they’ve been sharing, and she uses it first as mouthwash, spitting it out after gurgling it despite Dean’s objections, before eventually swallowing big mouthfuls to clean out the fetid residue.

…

“What…the _fuck?_ Animal blood, really?!” She’s practically spitting the words at the men.

The rum might be gone, but Dean’s cockiness isn’t. “Chill. I was just testing if you’d notice.”

Rounding on him, the nephion sends Dean flying against the wall with a sweep of the arm although she doesn’t touch him. Her eyes are black like a demon’s and her fangs have extended, reminding them that she’s not a human. Scrambling to get between the two of them, Sam can’t help but notice that his brother actually is scared. No one else would be able to tell from the guy’s demeanor and if it had been a normal demon then he probably wouldn’t have been; but Leira’s an unknown, making it impossible to anticipate her next move.

She’s slowly moving closer to the pinned guy. “Fucking prick, I’ll drain yo–“

“Woah there, girl.” Sam rolls his eyes at the sounds of his brother’s voice. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

The way she cocks her head to look past Sam enhances the predatory appearance. “You don’t get to ‘woah there’-me, asshole.” Her arm’s still stretched out to keep the hunter in place. “You torture me. You hate me. Then you find a use for me and pretend that none of the other things ever happened…” she snarls, shaking from either rage or hunger, “but you still don’t _trust_ me, even if I’m completely dependant on you…”

“I trust you, ‘kay?” Dean pales a bit as the furious woman sidesteps Sam who slings an arm around her as if he could actually restrain her. “But I just thought, y’know…blood’s blood…”

Leira blinks, making the black disappear and the normal brownish irises return. “It really _isn’t_ , douchebag. How’d you like it if the next beer you drank wasn’t beer, but piss?”

“You wouldn’t…”

A dark chuckle drifts through the air. “It’d be nothing compared to what you _deserve_.”

“Leira.” Sam tugs carefully at her waist. “Let him go. Please.” For a while, she keeps staring at the embodiment of her fury and indignation. “I’m sorry for what he’s done. Please let him go.”

Finally, she faces him instead. The resentment towards Dean is still evident, but her features soften slightly and as the nephion lowers her arm there’s a slight grunt to prove that the older hunter’s back on his feet.

“ _He_ should be the one to apologize.”

It’s barely even a whisper, and for a second Sam isn’t sure he actually heard it. “I know. He’ll come around.”

Thinking that Dean’s anywhere near to say sorry for his behaviour would be wishful thinking, and the closest thing Leira gets is when he retrieves one of the other bags they’ve brought, packed nicely between cooling elements. The taste must be almost nonexistent because of the low temperature and the liquid is thick like syrup, but it’s human blood and the nephion drinks it all, her perfect lips closing around the straw. She sucks greedily at first, until she manages to recompose herself.

Hoping to abolish the tension in the room, Sam picks up his beer. “What’s with the…bloodsucking anyways?”

“Yeah, I’ve been wondering about that too.” _Shut up, Dean!_ “Demons rarely do that and angels sure as hell wouldn’t either.”

Both men try not to stare at the woman who has begun to pace the room as she sips the drink she’s nursing. “I dunno why.” Clearly, it’s bothering her. _Of course, it is…it’s something she doesn’t know about herself._ “Dad once told that mom was anaemic all through the pregnancy. The vessel died moments after I was born.”

Glancing at his brother, Dean risks another question. “And you?”

“Fine.” Leira shrugs. “Perfect little baby who didn’t need any other care than other babies do…” Her back is to them, but she can’t move further away as she’s reached the fridge. “Normal diet…until my powers started showing.”

_Mother losing blood while child thrives during pregnancy,_ Sam’s putting two and two together, _then later the need to consume blood again._ “Let me guess…if you don’t drink then your…powers don’t work?”

“At least not very well…and eventually there’re the physical symptoms.”

Dean’s on board with his brother’s train of thoughts. “Only been drinking humans? No demons?”

An undignified, sputtering scoff is her first reaction. “Yeah, like you’d stop and jab a straw into someone trying to destroy you!”

“Oh, I dunno, sweet cheeks. We’ve seen something like that before…haven’t we, Sammy?”

If the ground had opened up below Sam, then he’d gladly jump right in as the big brother begins to explain about the yellow eyed demon and the fiasco it had been to go for the easy fix fueled by demon blood. In all honesty, some of the worst details are left out, including how the brothers were the ones responsible for starting the apocalypse, but it’s bad enough. Throughout the story session, Leira stays silent. _Maybe she knows this already?_ Almost all demons and angels know so she probably does too. Listening brings back memories Sam would rather go without. Things he’s done. Friends they’ve lost. And the world is still suffering the consequences from it all as Lucifer’s around somewhere, probably scheming to take over Hell or Heaven and destroy anything in between. Sure, the actual end of the world’s put on hold…but knowing their luck it won’t be forever.

Leira’s voice breaks through his jumbled thoughts slowly, “– think it would make a difference for me?” _What?_

“No clue…but sounds like you drank your mom from the inside.” Watching unwavering, Dean’s trying to gage the hybrid’s reaction. “Perhaps it’d do more than blood from humans.”

Realization hits the former demon-blood-addict hard with a panic that makes him want to yell and fight and run away at the same time. “Don’t even _think_ about it!” Finding himself the object of their attention does nothing to ease the clammy grip of shame and fear. “Trust me, you _don’t_ wanna go down that road. It’ll make you more demonic until one day you’ve had _too_ much and then you can’t go back.”

Dean has to lean all the way across the table to place a heavy hand on his brother’s arm. “It’s alright, Sammy. No one’s going to drink demon blood.”

Sliding a shaking hand through his hair, Sam wishes to god that they won’t go back on the promise because Leira’s more demon than he’d anticipated already. A vivid memory of the woman’s face with black eyes haunts him for a moment, making it hard to participate in the attempt at reviving a normal conversation.


	24. Pushing the limits

“What do you mean you can’t hear us?” Castiel tips his head in his usual manner when something puzzles him.

Glancing at the four male figures, Leira’s instincts tell her to lie and be cocky, but it won’t help. “I just can’t. Never have.” She plops onto a white couch, comfortably close to Sam. ”Seriously…an angel-radio?”

From what she’s learned about the heavenly host, this is one ability she’s happy to have missed out on. It would be difficult to freely listen to anyone or anything as scheming and arrogant as the general population of angels, and the idea of having them blabbering randomly inside her head sets of paranoia-inducing speculations.

“Perhaps the demonic side of this kind of hybrid cancels out some of the heavenly abilities?” Crowley, who’s studying the contents of the mini bar, finally decides to weigh in.

The full-blood demon and angel have been working together to track down Lucifer, calling in for the first time when they managed to track down the grumpy archangel to Los Angeles where the renegade usurper was running amok in Vince Vincente’s meatsuit. The four unlikely allies had gone to face him in the hopes of at least preventing him from killing a concert hall full of innocents, and of course Leira had to stay behind at the hotel. Looking over at the two humans, she can still see how shook up they are after having gotten their asses handed to them. Though not as badly as Crowley. _He’s got a lot riding on this._ If Lucifer manages to re-establish himself then there’ll be a new King of Hell…or the return of an old one really.

The nephion has to supress a shudder when the demon turns to face them with a selection of small whiskey bottles in hand. He’s the first from down under she’s had a chance to look at since the godly siblings brought her back from the dead. It’s not a pleasure. Underneath the round face of a middle-aged man is a different one with twisted features, scars, and a grin that would make blind people scream.

“What I want to know is…what _can_ you do?” The accent makes him sound even more disdainful than before.

Even so, it’s a good question and one that not even Leira knows the answer to. Unable to get free of the watch of the self-proclaimed Team Free Will, her life would be exponentially more satisfying if she would be allowed to participate in the hunt for Lucifer, but that’s not going to happen unless they know exactly what to expect from a nephalem. That’s what they’re discussing now.

Refilling the glass with amber liquid, Crowley barely spares a glance at the woman. “I’m not bringing her _anywhere_ if she can’t handle herself.”

“Oh, I’m sure _that_ won’t be a problem.” Leira shoots a smirk at Dean who seems bothered by the memories. “Problem’s if anything I do catches the attention of the wrong people.”

As King, the demon can declare the nephion off limits, but not all his subjects might follow such an order and it’s going to be impossible to get a similar agreement topside. The only thing working in their favour is the continuous focus on Lucifer because that could be enough of a cover in case anything she might be able to do is traceable. _Like flashing._ Leira had been taught by her parents that travelling instantaneously by thought leaves traces that can be followed, a peculiarity which she now voices her lack of understanding for.

“Try.”

She does as she’s asked after seeing Sam nod encouragingly. As she rejoins them from the bathroom both non-humans are shaking their heads: nothing to trace. _Freedom!_

…   …   …

The soft flutter of wings announces Leira’s arrival in the library where Sam’s scouring the internet for traces of anything. Anything at all. Since Los Angeles, she’d entertained herself (and frustrated Dean) by appearing and disappearing randomly, and one time she even moved the guy while he was sleeping. That hadn’t gone down quietly.

“What’s up?” Sam leans down to pick up a paper scrap that has been blown off the table.

Shrugging, she sits on the chair next to him. “Not much. Got bored of trying to pick up a frequency…”

Castiel has insisted that she should keep trying to tune in on angel radio, but for the time being it’s only the actual radio Leira has been able to mess with, resulting in an ear-splitting static noise. Glancing at the clock in the corner of the laptop’s screen, the hunter calculates that the nephion has been at it for at least four and a half hours. _Like me._ He rubs his eyes in an attempt to see clearly after too long spent staring at pixels.

“Where’s Dean?” The woman asks innocently while she’s fidgeting with nothing apparent.

“Out on a supply run.” Her fingers are moving delicately through a small space of empty air before her. “What’re you doing?”

Looking at him with wide eyes, a slight blush comes and goes in seconds. “Just…erm…picking at my…feathers.” Placing her hands in the lap, Leira avoids facing him. “It’s kinda funny…I couldn’t see more than just a shimmer of their wings before…but now…” she shrugs, “now they look solid with colours and all.”

“Colours? Aren’t they white?” He can hear how presumptuous, almost racist, it sounds the moment the words are out. “I mean…all the paintings and-and y’know –“

“Chill. I get it.” Some of her dark hair is shook loose as she laughs. “Cas’ wings are black, actually. Dad’s were sort of pinkish according to himself, and mine…mine are dark blue.”

Not quite sure what he was expecting the images of angels Sam has met in the past flashes for his inner eye, all with wings added in ridiculous colours. _Nah, she’s not serious._ As if Leira knows what he’s thinking she grabs the empty air and next moment she’s holding a feather which she passes to him. It’s the size of a swan quill, but the shade of midnight rather than the pure snow most artists have favoured over the years.

_Wow._ “It suits you.” Turning it over, he can’t help but marvel at the shimmering quality each barb has, like they are lacquered.

“Thank you? I think?”

Sam can see how the old distrust is building up behind her calm façade when he looks over at her. _No don’t get it wrong!_ “Yes, totally! It’s beautiful!” _Aaaaand I did not just say that out loud._

The sudden urge to leave the room (or at least slam his face onto the table) is strong and it’s only the tiny shy smile that prevents him from moving. Twice, the woman opens her mouth to say something, both times coming up empty even if she’s just as good as Dean to come up with snarky replies or witty comments. Not this time. A tongue tip darts out to wet the naturally darkened lips before she breathes deeply. _Screw it._ Leaning forward, the hunter gives in to the sudden notion and kisses Leira quickly right on the mouth. Afraid of how she’ll react he pulls away, but slender fingers curl around the back of his skull, pulling him towards her until their lips meet again. In less than a heartbeat, the kiss has deepened, and Sam enjoys running his tongue over the pointy teeth (even in the heat of the moment, he notices that they aren’t as sharp as he had imagined) before exploring the taste of her tongue. _Tea and lemon?_ Reaching out, he’s allowed to pull the woman over onto his lap.

…

_We’re kissing._ Leira’s brain is hobbling along, trying to catch up with what’s happening and shouting useless information at her. _I’ve kissed before._ A large hand is sliding up her back. _Loads of people._ The fingers close softly in the long messy hair to pull her closer. _He’s good though._ She can feel his lips tighten in a smile, but they don’t break contact. _It’s not the worst, we could do._ Erotic displays fill her head instantaneously nearly drowning out her thoughts and pulling a sigh from her chest. _Now that…that would bring trouble._ Repositioning, the woman abandons sitting sideways in exchange for straddling him. _Wonderful trouble._ Her hands are travelling across his shoulders and upper arms, feeling the broad build tense up under her fingertips and the suddenly annoying layers of clothes. _Who wears both a t-shirt and a plaid anyways?_ Warm breath fans her collarbone as his face turns to the tender spot on the neck and a strong arm pulls her closer, arching her back until she’s flush against him.

“What the _hell_?!”

Startled, Leira twists to get a look at the speaker who’s standing on the metal platform by the main entrance. Somewhere by her shoulder, Sam sputters as he frees his face of the sudden invasion of hair before glancing past her with a sheepish ‘Heya, Dean’.

Indeterminable expressions darken the big brother’s eyes before he regains composure. “Put a sock on the doorknob next time, will ya?”

Already on the way down the stairs, he disappears towards the kitchen, leaving the two others behind in the crushingly silent room.

“He’s gonna kill me for sure now.” Pushing off, Leira swings a leg over Sam’s lap and stands up. “Sorry. I shou–“

“Don’t.” Somehow, he still has his hands on her hips and he’s not letting go. “It’s okay. Really. And I’ll talk to him, so you don’t have to worry about anything.”

His serious, grey eyes are softened by the smile. _The lips are a bit puffy._ A warmth spreads through the nephion’s chest at the thought and it’s all she can do not to add to it. It had felt good. Not just the quality of the kiss, but the way it had chased away any worries or doubts. Sam makes her feel safe. Normal. _But I’m not and this is going to bring him trouble._ Frowning for a second at the unfamiliar priority, Leira snakes out of his grasp and hurries away without bothering to think where she’s going.

The life of that gentle man has always been hard, and he’s lost more than most other people without life ever giving him or Dean a break. One tragedy after the other has chipped off pieces of his heart, but still he’s somehow managed to open up to her. _Me._ She’s got nothing to offer him except more heartbreak. Leira’s a kind of creature that always will be hunted by monsters and that would put anyone near her at risk too. Like a fugitive, she’ll have to pick up and leave one day, abandoning all parts of her old life. Abandoning Sam…and that’s the best-case scenario! Working with the hunters could be possible. Being a sort of friend might even work out, providing that they can keep a secret. But more? _Never. It’ll end in tears._

Even as the door to the garage closes behind her and she hurries up the steps, she can hear both men calling out for her. The entire bunker is like a time vault, but the garage more so with its vintage cars and motor bikes that make the Impala look like it’s fresh off the assembly line. Dean rarely parks his treasured ’67 down here, preferring a quicker getaway, so the hinges scream in protest as she pushes the towering double doors out into a shadowy world of a tunnel which she follows up and through a gentle curve. Leira can feel it when she’s outside that she has crossed the warded barrier and the nephion only pauses to do one thing before thinking herself far away.

…

Pulling the vibrating phone out of the pocket, she sees the familiar name flash on the screen before rejecting the call.

“That’s the third time, honey.” _Third time and a lot of texts._ The bartender’s a stout woman with a million freckles spattered across face and shoulders. “Don’t ye think ye oughta hear what he has ta say?”

Leira glances at the empty shots glass on the counter between them. “What makes you think it’s a guy?”

“Bloke. Sheila. Whatever.” The clear liquid sloshes into the small container. “Always a _somebody_ , when ye drinkin’ with the flies.”

Bartenders all over the world speak the same universal truths. Maybe it’s just because of human nature being so bafflingly simple, and yeah, even angels and demons sport some of the same tendencies no matter how hard they deny it, especially if they’ve been spending a lot of time on earth instead of above or beneath it. Supposedly, Chuck made all of his creations capable of love which means that the twisted souls that became demons eons ago also should be susceptible to those feelings in their own grotesque ways. Leira just wishes her heritage would at least have made it simpler.

“Next up you’ll prob’ly tell me to talk to him.” The liquor burns on the way down the throat.

A new text ticks in, making the phone in the nephion’s hand light up as the sharp matron leans on the counter. “If he did ye wrong…toss him to the garbos. If not…what’re ye wait’n for?”

Other customers pull the barkeep’s attention away, allowing Leira a chance to read the latest text.

\- Sorry if I crossed the line. No one wants you gone. Come home. S.


	25. Home is not just a place

Dean isn’t proud of the level he had to stoop to get Sam to relax, but after 20 hours of the guy either pacing around or trying anything known to man to find Leira, there really hadn’t been any other options. So yeah, sleeping pills ground into the burger patty is a new low…but it works. Rubbing his eyes, Dean allows his thoughts to wander away from the spell book in front of him. _Damn bitch._ Just their luck that some doe-eyed chick with demon blood had to waltz in and get his little brother all worked up, causing all sorts of trouble for the both of them. Part of the hunter reminds him that the nephion hasn’t been all bad. She’s good on a hunt, actually. Might even be able to make a difference in the struggle against Lucifer, and goodness knows any extra help is badly needed. _And she’s got spunk. Stubborn as shit, but kinda cool._ Reluctant to accept it, Dean has had to admit to both Cas (when they met in Los Angeles) and Sam (just a few days ago) that he’s come to trust the woman.

Checking both his and Sam’s phones again, he swears under the breath. “Get your ass back here.” As if on cue, the heavy iron door to the bunker grinds open, letting in an unnaturally timid nephion. “Leira…?”

Dean waits for her to descend the stairs, studying the furrowed brows, the slightly puffy eyes, and how she’s biting the bottom lip to keep it from trembling. There’s a slight smudge of blood on her chin, but it doesn’t look like it belongs to her. Reddish sand is clinging to the shoes, only reluctantly letting go each time she takes a step until standing in front of him and he can’t keep quiet anymore.

“You can’t just take off like that, damnit! We’ve been fucking _worrying_ about you!”

Pushing stray locks of hair out of her face, Leira avoids meeting his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Family is more than just genetics. That’s what life has taught the Winchester brothers and the few people that have wiggled into the boy’s lives will have to accept a couple of overprotective guys to come to the rescue in times of need. The first time Dean and Sam dragged the oddity home as a prisoner none of them had expected what would happen, but now she’s _their_ oddity and keeping her safe is part of an unspoken arrangement of this makeshift family. Stepping up to Leira, the hunter pats her awkwardly on the shoulder before letting his hand rest there, surprising himself almost as much as her. _She isn’t shying away._

“Don’t run off like that again, okay?” She nods at his request. “I dunno what you and Sammy’ve got going, but you need to figure it out…without hurting him.” More nodding. “Should be a few more hours before he wakes up, but you can try.”

…

The lamp on the desk provides the only light in Sam’s room when Leira enters. Flooding the nearest stacks of books and paper, the light also reaches the man on the bed where it illuminates the thinly drawn mouth and creases on his forehead. _Bad dreams?_ The plaid shirt is pulled crooked, probably a result of Dean having to manhandle his brother to get him onto the bed, and it looks like one of Sam’s arms will be asleep for a while after he technically wakes up. Closing the door silently, the uninvited visitor toes off her own shoes and leaves them next to his boat-sized ones by the wall before climbing onto the bed. The change in his breathing is minuscule as she settles down with crossed legs next to him. He still looks tense. Worried. _I wonder what he’s dreaming_ , she considers while reaching out to brush a few hairs away from his eyes.

Leira knows she hasn’t moved, but nothing around her looks like it did a second ago. She’s standing in a shockingly familiar bar where a familiar tune plays and people are drinking and chatting, adding a layer of noise to the place. A sort of haze is hanging in the air, making it hard to see things clearly, but it doesn’t smell like smoke…in fact all she can smell is stale beer and a hint of sweat. A single table is surrounded by a handful of late teens, but mostly the clientele is from the mid-thirties and up like always and just like always Billy’s hovering behind the bar, doing anything but helping with serving the people waiting. Instead, he’s talking to Sam. _How did we get here?_

“Sam?” She’s almost at his side, rubbing her eyes to get rid of the blurriness.

Turning to face her, the hunter stands out from the surroundings clear as day. “Leira! I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” Standing face to face, she can see how he hesitates moving too close as if he might scare her away. “I’m sorry if I…if…” The tall man looks at a loss.

All she has to do is reach out for him before he pulls her into a tight embrace without hesitation, as if afraid that she might disappear again, but if feels too right for the woman to want to move away. A whiff of a new scent permeates the air, something she can’t quite place even though it’s familiar.

“Don’t worry…I’m here now…”

_Something’s not right._ Looking around, everything seems perfectly normal at first glance until she tries to focus on the details. There aren’t any. Instead the fuzziness stays, similar to how it looks when a photo is taken without the right settings sorted or like an imperfect memory. _His memory. Is this a dream?_ Detangling herself, Leira looks down at her own body, recognizing the clothes and apron from the night she met the brothers for the very first time.

Taking his hand, she looks at Sam. “Where else did you look?”

“Everywhere. Your place.” As soon as he has said the words, the surroundings change to mimic the old apartment where Leira had lived and the yellowed walls could use a bit of loving. Puzzled, Sam takes in the change in scenery. “How did…? Oh…” _Yeah…this is your dream._ “I’m dreaming…you’re not really back.”

“I’m not sure how I got into your dream, but I _am_ back.” Running a thumb over his knuckles, the nephion considers the options. “I’ll be there when you wake up.”

…

The heavy dredges of unconsciousness are clinging on to Sam as he tries to wake up from the dreamworld, pulling him back into the comfortable darkness. He’s vaguely aware of how he drifts in the limbo between awake and asleep outside any sense of time and place and sometimes forgetting why he has a feeling that he _must_ wake up…but each time he scratches the surface he manages to become a bit more aware of himself and the surroundings for just a few seconds longer than the time before. By the sixth or seventh attempt, he rubs the sleep out of his eyes and focuses on the person sitting next to him on the bed.

“Leira?” Sam’s voice is throaty, and he tries to clear it. “I dreamt…”

He can see the timid smile and hear it in her voice. “I know. I was there.”

Reaching for her, he finds the much smaller hand and feels how it closes around some of his fingers. _Damn, why is everything so blurry?_ Shaking the head is no help, and he feels how he’s falling back into unconsciousness.

…

Next time Sam wakes up, the grogginess is gone and there’s no struggle to stay awake. He’s also acutely aware of the weight of someone else on the bed as well as a woman’s hand in his without opening his eyes to look around. _She’s back._ It’s almost impossible for him to pinpoint when the hybrid became a top priority with everything else that’s going on, but here they are, and he has to find a way to deal with it.

“Feeling better?” He can hear the smirk in the way she talks. “Or do you need your big brother to tug you in again?”

Turning his head to look at her, Sam’s pleased to see that she’s sitting relaxed. “Nah, I’m good…but why _am_ I here?” Thinking back, some of the memories are still blurred and the last clear impression is Dean telling him to eat. He’d even made one hell of a burger too.

“Somehow, Dean managed to drag you from the kitchen and in here. He drugged you ‘cause apparently…you were acting like a dog in a storm.”

_Fucking Hell._ Sam had been ignoring any attempts and arguments at getting calmed down by his brother, resorting instead to do anything he could to find the woman. Looking at their entwined hands, he knows they have to address the elephant in the room, but he doesn’t really want to push her away. God knows it’s almost a miracle she’s gotten to trust them, and he’s been enjoying her company to say the least. To top that off, there’s still the lingering warning from Chuck and his sister…if Amara’s right, then it’s going to be vital for them to remain friendly.

_A safe subject._ “So uuuhm…where’d you go?”

Leira pulls the legs up towards her chest to rest the chin on the knees. “Some town in ‘Stralia. Think it’s called Molong or something.” One of the fingers on her free hand traces invisible patterns on the blanket. “Turns out I can get further than before.”

“What d’you mean?” Propping himself up on an elbow, Sam tries to get a look at her face, but she’s looking down and the light’s coming from the desk lamp behind her. “Further?”

The nephion explains in brief sentences how she’s been able to ‘flash’ from one place to another ever since she began to develop powers and how her father thought it was due to the demonic traits that were showing. Oddly, she could never get further than a mile away. This time, however, she only had to picture the bar from a random documentary she’d once seen and suddenly she was there, halfway around the world.

“D’you think it’s ‘cause of your wings?” It’s the only logical explanation the hunter can think of and she nods in response. “So…you can…erm fly far now…and enter dreams…”

Shrugging this time, she tips into a lying position still curled up and still holding his hand. “Guess being resurrected comes with certain perks.” The smile on her lips is gone too fast in the guy’s opinion. “Listen…’bout what happened –”

“I get it,” Sam can see how she’s about to pull back into the safety of solitude. “I’ve no right to expect anything and I went too far. It’s not like you’d want something like that from someone like me.”

_There. It’s said._ The atmosphere in the bunker will probably be awkward for a while, but at least they can both move on and eventually, maybe, Sam will get to see the woman as a friend. Unable to meet Leira’s eyes, he studies the hand he’s holding on to, knowing that he ought to let go. A tight knot is constricting his chest, cutting off the feeling to the rest of his body which makes him feel numb and cold even if the heater is on. _Get a grip._ Life as a hunter always ends in blood and pain. It’s impossible to get out alive and the people you get too close to end up getting hurt as well, victims of monsters out to get to you or maybe even by your own hand…perhaps because you can’t save them any other way. Keeping their relationship professional is the best thing he can do for her.

“Actually…I like you and it felt…right.” Extending herself, she slides closer by fractions of an inch at a time. “Doesn’t make sense and this is fucking _awkward_ ,” they both smile at her words, “but if you’ll be patient, then…I’ll try.”

Pulling back a bit, Sam scrutinizes her face for any trace of doubt. “It’ll put you at risk.”

“Ha!” The mocking laughter is dry. “Like I’ve been safe before you guys got to me?” Leira knows she’s got a point that he can’t rebuke. “In fact…it’s not half horrible with someone to have my back…plus I’ve got upgrades.”

Time doesn’t matter as silence is allowed to fall over the room, covering them under a layer of comfort. Sometimes, Sam’s thoughts are centered on the being right in front of him, trying to understand what’s happening and what might be in store. _‘You’ll need her. All of you.’_ Those had been the words…but for what? He worries there’s some heavenly plan for Leira to fight Lucifer, even when nothing they’ve dug up has pointed to that and, honestly, the archangel would most likely swat her away like a fly even if she’s developing new skills. Becoming more powerful.

The woman before him tilts her head to study him, not like the predatory monster he and Dean first had assumed she was, but as a person who’s re-evaluating parts of the world. Afraid of somehow intimidating her, as counterintuitive as it seems, Sam leans over and pecks a light kiss on her forehead, lingering close enough to hear how Leira’s breath has become shallow and rapid. Most of the time, the hybrid puts on a tough façade, showing off the warrior or hunter inside her and even flirting shamelessly, so it’s peculiar how something as simple as a little affection leaves her in a near-panic state.

“Too soon?” He has to pull back a bit before he can look into her dark eyes.

She takes her time before answering. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m no saint. I’ve flirted, kissed, fucked…” there’s no shame in her eyes, “but it’s been to get whatever I’ve needed.” Swallowing dryly, she’s trying to explain herself. “I’ve never…what I’ve learned…”

Nodding, Sam can guess what she’s referring to. “I get it.”

His whisper calms her down and she slides a hand onto him where it rests above the belt for just a moment before pushing aside the layers of the t-shirt and the button-up. Warm fingers ghost over Sam’s skin, creating ripples of goosebumps that travel along his spine and side, igniting a longing within him. Slowly, to avoid frightening her, he traces the length of Leira’s arm until he reaches her neck and he can let the fingers disappear into the black mass of hair. His entire field of vision is reduced to her face. Plump lips that are slightly parted to liberate shaky breaths. Eyes that makes him think of chocolate and fine cognac and ink all at once; he nearly gets lost in them when the nephion draws nearer and their mouths meet.


	26. The trail

Circling the opponent without ever taking her eyes off him, Leira feels more than confident that she can take the man down. The knife he’s wielding gleams in the light as he flips it over in the rough hand and the muscles under the t-shirt ripple in anticipation. As she gages his predatory movements, the nephion thrusts an arm towards him, palm pushing the empty air towards his chest as if to shield herself, to keep him away. It should have sent him flying backwards into the wall, but nothing happens and the realization of it catches the woman by surprise.

“Hex bag.” Dean’s smug grin stays up while Leira’s hand doesn’t. “Doesn’t last long, but you can’t toss me around for now.”

The padding underneath their feet squeaks slightly as the pacing resumes. Both of them have most of their weight on the balls of their feet and their knees are slightly bend, ensuring a quick reaction. _Maybe not you._ Focusing on the knife instead, she sends it flying with a flick of the wrist, eyes never wavering from Dean even as he watches it bury the blade completely in a punchbag. _Who’s smiling now?_

Pulling his brows down over the green eyes, the hunter has to re-evaluate the situation. “Damnit.”

Striking out fast, Leira plants a palm in his chest with enough force to send him tumbling on the floor before coming to a halt with his tight ass in the air. A string of curses and groans gushes from the man as he gets back on the feet.

Dean is a strong and exceptionally fast fighter by human standards, and even demons and other monsters are known to have gotten their asses kicked by him – closely followed by either death or an exorcism. The few of the hunter’s opponents that have lived to tell the tale all say the same thing: the man is ferocious. Thankfully, simply sparring with him does guarantee Leira’s survival, but he gives as good as he gets and the nephion’s just as often on the defensive. Bruises are forming all over on both of them before Leira finally manages to get him in a chokehold between her thighs and he has to tap out.

“I’m startin’ to feel sorry for Sammy,” the words are gasping between deep breaths, “if that’s how you treat guys when they’re between your legs.” The comment and the accompanying leer are undoubtedly meant to embarrass her.

“Oh, don’t worry ‘bout him…he gets special treatment.” Wrenching the knife free, she turns to him with an innocent smile. “I even let him get up for air.”

They make their way to the kitchen and then the library side by side, chatting as they go about the different phases of the sparring session. _Who would’ve thought?_ Once upon a time, which seems like a lifetime ago, she would’ve done what she could to avoid (or if necessary kill) someone like the Winchesters, but here she is. They’re her friends. They want her safe. _I’m dating one_! Entering the high-ceilinged part of the bunker, they find Sam scowling at his laptop.

“So…find anything?” Dean hands his brother a cold beer. “Anyone powerful or respectable suddenly change? Or explode?”

“Well…this is interesting.” Sam turns the laptop for the arrivals to see. “This is the archbishop of Saint Louis…”

Within minutes, the guys decide to pay the archdiocese a visit to learn more and as expected they downright forbid Leira to come along in case Lucifer _is_ there. She hates it. Staying behind and waiting like some useless damsel from an old fairy-tale isn’t her ideal way to spend the time, but it makes sense – both for the sake of her own safety and to allow Sam to concentrate fully on the task at hand.

Dean has already thundered up the stairs to allow the couple a moment alone. They don’t say good bye. They don’t say anything, actually, just rest their foreheads against each other and wish for the best.

…

Speaking from principle, Castiel’s supposed to dislike working with Crowley…and he does. The demon is obnoxious, has questionable morals at best, and it would be fatal to actually trust him. _The enemy of my enemy_ , Castiel reminds himself every day. The King of Hell is a valuable ally against Lucifer, not to mention that this partnership allows Cas and the Winchesters to keep an eye on the short demon, but even so it’s soothing to be called away from Crowley’s side by the brothers.

Looking at the images on Sam’s cell phone, the angel is saddened by the unnecessary violence the brothers had been met by when they went to search for the Archbishop of St. Louis. Lucifer’s moving from one vessel to another too quickly for them to catch up and it’s likely this will be the case until he has found a human with enough influence and power to sustain him and his ambitions. Nothing Sam has to say serves to lessen the worry charging the air in the bunker. Both the young hunters and Leira are working on their computers by the table to find any signs of where the fallen archangel might have gone to next.

Now and then, the nephion’s wings shiver as a sign of her mental state and seeing the unintentional movement brings memories back to the seraphim. Angels are not meant to show emotions. Any feelings they do harbour have to be hidden and controlled, but the wings betray the younger ones. Agitation, sadness, joy. Each is indicated by the positioning and movements of the wings and feathers, and after periods of distress it may be visible in the condition of the limbs. Leira’s wings are well-groomed, which is a good sign, but Castiel recognizes other signs of apprehension and agitation.

“Son of a bitch!” Pushing a button, Dean growls at his phone.

Castiel’s own wings don’t move at the outburst. “She does not respond?”

In desperation of lack of progress, they’ve decided to entrust whomever they can with the search for Lucifer. There aren’t many to call on and it’s important who’s informed first which is why Dean has been chiming down the human Jody Mills…to no avail. The glance the brothers share speaks volumes. As a hunter, it’s not unlikely that the woman could have fallen prey to one of the many monsters in this world.

“She’s alive.” Castiel’s words prompt an extended exhale from Dean, his green eyes abandoning the taint of desperation. “I have to return to Crowley with the news of the archbishop, but I suggest sending Leira.”

…

_Damn you, halo-boy._ Leira’s brain is slushing around inside the skull, threatening to seep out the ears with any move she makes, but it becomes evident as she rearranges her thoughts that Cas has added to her knowledge…or rather ‘flicked a switch on’. Lingering at the edge of her awareness are billions of souls and other creatures, all vague unless the nephion decides to focus on one of them which in turn divulges an array of information. Location. Health. Mental state. The angel had been surprised to learn that Leira didn’t already posses the skill and he had palmed her forehead without asking for permission.

The dizziness is receding already, and the woman knows what she has to do, so she exits the bunker side by side with the angel to step outside the wardings.

“Good luck.” A grim smile is the only answer she gets from Castiel before he takes off with a flutter of black wings.

_Here goes nothing._

There are several terms for the manner in which angels and demons travel. Previously, Leira has referred to it as ‘flashing’, though the angels may prefer the term ‘flying’ and the demons are in favour of ‘teleporting’. Regardless of the name, it takes a relatively small amount of energy and no movement is actually felt; rather, it appears to the traveller as if they remain in place while the entire world shifts instantaneously according to their wishes…in this case forcing the interior of a house to materialize around the nephion.

Sweeping a gaze around the room, Leira realizes she’s popped into a semi-old, but cozy, kitchen that still displays the remnants of a Chinese take-out dinner for one. The only light comes from the TV in the neighbouring room and when she walks closer to the couch arrangement, squinting against the light, she sees the blue rays flicker on the nearly black hair of woman too young to be Jody Mills. Other names float into her mind instead. _Alex or Annie_. Halfway across the living room, the sound of hinges creaking makes Leira turn just in time to see the double-barrelled shotgun pointing at her chest and then the shot rings out.

The young woman bolts out of the couch as the rock salt slams into the wall, perforating the wallpaper after having passed unhindered through the space Leira had occupied half a thought ago. The shooter looks bewildered up at the intruder who now is standing right next to her to rip the gun away. Rock salt hurts even if it doesn’t kill. The splash of water that drenches Leira’s face next moment does neither.

“I’m not gonna hurt you.” She sputters, blinking the drops out of the eyelashes. “I’m a friend of the Winchesters and Castiel.”

The immediate response from Jody is an arched eyebrow, and below it the eyes flash quickly to Alex. Raising an arm, Leira sends the girl back onto the couch with an audible thud and the gun the girl had drawn clatters across the floor.

Trying to stay calm, Leira looks back at the sheriff. “Dean’s been calling you, but you didn’t pick up.”

“Been hunting.” Jody’s still free to move and she’s edging slowly out of the intruder’s range. “Who’re ya?”

“My name’s Leira. I’m a –”

“A friend of the boys, yeah…” The short-haired woman reaches into her pocket to pull out her cell phone. A quick glance confirms the claim about the calls. “ _What_ are ya?”

The brothers have insisted that Jody can be trusted, but old habits die hard. Hoping to win both time and trust, the nephion releases the invisible hold on Alex before handing the shotgun back to its rightful owner. Puzzled by the move, Jody motions towards a well-used armchair by the coffee table. A quick glance at the ceiling reveals nothing and there is no rug under the seat to hide a trap there either. _Alright._ Sitting down on the edge of the checkered furniture, Leira faces two (re)armed women, and although the weapons aren’t pointing directly at her the message is clear: trust is earned.

“Alright…last time you saw Sam and Dean was at the wake for Asa Fox,” the nephion begins slowly, “and you met Mary then…and heard about Chuck and Amara?”

The intelligent face of Alex has transformed into a beacon of confusion, but Jody nods, prompting the guest to go on. With few details and no side stories to explain her own existence, Leira tells the little family about Lucifer’s search for a new vessel in preparation to retake Hell and possibly Heaven.

“We need help keeping an eye out for him. The devil’s aiming high, we think, but can reappear anywhere.” Leira concludes.

Not a word is said as Jody pulls out the phone and dials a number. It only takes one ring before there’s an answer at the other end of the line and she briefly asks about the person sitting in the soft chair across from her. Whatever is said is too faint for a human bystander to hear, but Leira picks up Dean’s deep voice easily, allowing her to nod along to the few other things that are verified before the sheriff finishes the conversation. Not once has she taken the eyes off the messenger. _We’re good? No?_ Apparently, they are because Jody puts down the weapon, nodding to Alex to do the same.

“So….Satan’s suit-shopping…” the short-haired woman sighs, suddenly appearing dog-tired.

Alex, who’s been quiet during the explanation, gets up to pace around the room. “How’d we recognize him?”

“Sudden change of behaviour. His vessel probably can’t contain him for long, so look for what looks like burns or boils.” Reconsidering everything she knows, Leira continues to explain about Lucifer’s effect and reactions to crucifixes, his lust for power, and the disregard for human lives. “If you think you’ve spotted him…don’t go after him.”

It’s not simply an empty promise for the sake of diplomacy when Jody calmly nods. “Tell the boys I’ll help any way I can.”

“We.” Alex’s correction might be spoken on a quavering exhale, but her mind’s made up too.


	27. Shit hits the fan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah so, we're getting a part that'll be spoiler heavy, so don't read on if you haven't watched ALL of season 12. The same will go for the next couple of chapters...consider yourself warned!

The bunker has seemed crowded since Leira got back from Jody’s a few days ago. The place was originally built to house a dozen Men of Letters comfortably, but maybe that’s the problem: at no point in time was it taken into consideration that two humans would be having a nephion and an angel staying over almost constantly as well as a demon stopping by at its own discretion, making it nearly impossible to find a peaceful place. Not unlike the balancing act on a tight rope, the situation and the clashing personalities of those present required Leira to stay calm and focused despite the turmoil inside.   
Castiel’s presence, she had thought, would ease Dean’s tension and in a way it did…she witnessed a glimpse of a smile on occasion when the angel tried to adjust to the habits of humans. Over the years on earth, Cas has learned to brew coffee and create mouth-watering sandwiches, and he has been doing just that in an attempt to occupy himself while the brothers and Leira were busy with their laptops. What Cas really wanted was to be of use in the search for Lucifer. The other three had skills from the human world, allowing them to scour innumerable sources for any sign of the fallen archangel; Crowley had his own network of demons and associates thanks to his position as King, which in itself added to his activity level. But Cas? He had nothing. The garrison of angels he once belonged to had been wiped out and Heaven wanted nothing to do with him.

Misfits and outcasts. Technically, those labels could also be used for Leira, but she didn’t feel lonely or isolated as she lay snuggled up close to Sam on his bed. She was slowly adjusting to the idea of having a home. To the point, in fact, that the idea of having to move on one day would have her roaming the bunker at night like a restless ghost, unable to let go or accept the change that the world brings.   
And yes, life had brought change. First time, it had been embodied by Crowley who’d figured out which vessel the devil had taken. Jefferson Rooney, also known as the President of the United States. They had all started planning and preparing, hoping to find some way to infiltrate the place and get to the bastard and his meatsuit without getting killed first by either the security agents or Lucifer, which admittedly would make the rest of the mission rather difficult. Capturing and caging an archangel is never easy.

Then things went and got worse, as impossible as it may have sounded. Leira had been taking a break and was talking with Cas when it happened. At the time it had felt as if the entire world was shaking in its foundations, the vibrations travelling through the molecules of everything and echoing in her mind and soul as if attempting to tear her grace apart. She’d later learned that Castiel had felt the same, but the world itself hadn’t been affected. _Nephilim._ An archangel (there was no doubt which) had fathered a child in that moment, and each demon or angel had felt it in their core. Like any other nephilim and cambions (and nephions in Leira’s case) this would already be categorized as an abomination both up- and downstairs. Sam and Dean had the courtesy to play down that part, but with the unborn child being the offspring of Lucifer, they still considered it to be impending doom on (eventually) two legs. Something that could threaten the world. Their world. So of course, the Winchesters and Castiel had raced off, hoping to somehow get to both of the expecting parents, and of course Sam had begged Leira to stay behind. To stay off the radar just to be safe, as he reasoned. Any team needs a ‘guy in the chair’ and she’d accepted to be theirs on condition that Sam would keep her up to date as often as possible. He had. And then suddenly there was nothing. No texts, no calls.

Clicking the phone back to life, Leira reads through the last few texts about a Brit named Ketch and his offer to provide something that could help them. _British Man of Letters._ She knows about them. Not much, but enough to realize that it’s fishy of this Ketch-guy to suddenly appear on the playing board and the Winchesters ought to figure as much too, especially after the stunt one of his colleagues had pulled before Leira got caught by the brothers.

-  It will be fine. We got time, place, and now a way to deal with Lucifer. Don’t worry. S. 

That text is already old, and the woman can’t shake the feeling that something’s very wrong. It takes very little time to find supressed news of an incident involving the presidential security and, by extension, Rooney at a motel. Although the facts are few and the speculation overwhelming there are still hints at the presence of non-human activities to top off the kidnapping of the president’s aid and attempt on Rooney’s life. Making up her mind, she kits herself out with an impressive arsenal and two spare bags of donor blood. _Time to break my promise._


	28. Split up

Sam’s no stranger to the law and its keepers, and he’s seen the inside of one too many cells during the years he and Dean have been hunting together. The smaller, local jails aren’t too bad, and the brothers have generally been in an out in a few hours. Green River had been different. For one, it was the only time they’d actually gotten themselves arrested on purpose by following one of Dean’s crappy plans (except, of course, it had worked), but they’d been among real criminals in the County Detention Center. Constantly surrounded by killers, rapists, and worse, Sam hadn’t been able to relax, and it had honestly freaked him out to see how easily his brother fitted in.

That place was a kindergarten compared to where they were now. Each person locked in their own cell, the only time they’d gotten to see the face of another soul was during their individual interrogations. _Damn it._ He should’ve known it would happen. Everything they’d had, had been taken from them, they hadn’t been granted their rights to an attorney because, obviously, going after the president of the United States placed them in the same category as terrorists.

Now neither of the brothers can get a message to anyone on the outside. Not to Cas. Not to mom. _Not to Leira._

…

There are no visible signs in the motel room of the events that had been loosely described in the article, but the nephion knows it’s the right place. The traces from the celestial exorcism are fading fast along with the scent of sulfur…but those are the only clues. The guy working the check-in hadn’t been on work that day, so he couldn’t tell Leira what had happened or where any of her friends have gone. _Friends._ Okay, it might not be correct to think of Crowley as such, but the other three. Dean. Cas. _Sam._

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she feels more alone than she has for a long time and she hates it. As the woman rests the head in her hands, trying to imagine herself in their place, she hears sharp footsteps outside the door warning her to move into position behind it when it swings open. Leira’s fingers are wrapped tightly around the angel blade’s hilt when the check-in clerk and the demon borrowing him step past, taking in the room in front of him with a slight tilt of the head. The soft click of the locking mechanism twisting makes him stop and turn to face the woman.

“Well, well, well.” An unnatural smile is curling his lips the moment his eyes go completely black. “The boss was right.”

Flicking a wrist, the demon seems puzzled for a second when nothing happens, but the frown is wiped off as soon as he’s flung through the air and pinned to the wall behind him. Unable to move, he resorts to the typical cowardice of his kind by attempting to smoke out, only to find that the tainted essence is forced back into him.

_I can keep him contained?_ Trying to mask her own surprise, Leira tuts the way she’s heard disappointed teachers do. “I didn’t say you could leave.”

“What are you?” Demon or not, he’s staring at her with big, fear-filled eyes.

The nephion has no intention of outing herself, deciding instead to use what she’s learned from Dean. “That depends on what you’re doing here.” She leans lazily against a table. “So…sing, little bird, and I might not be your enemy.”

…

Some demons have gone down in history as downright formidable opponents with wills and balls of not just iron but adamantium or vibranium. This demon will not be one of them. He’d claimed to be sent by Crowley, which may or may not be true because he was able to explain that the mission had been a success in so much that Lucifer had been dealt with. After that, Crowley and Rowena had left. Even if it bothered Leira that the witch had been involved, she’d swallowed the bitter pill because it made sense.

Wiping the angel blade on the ex-clerk’s t-shirt, Leira’s pondering the few bits of information pertaining the events after the royal departure. _Arrested by the Secret Service._ For a moment, she considers calling the cops anonymously on the dead guy slumped against the wall, but she decides against it and flashes to the reception where she can access the computer to both wipe the surveillance and search for any traces of where the President’s men would lock up two suspected attackers.

Not surprisingly, that kind of knowledge is not readily available online. As Leira steps out from the reception, careful to avoid bumping into the couple loitering on the front steps, she feels hopelessness closing in. _Where do I go from here?_ She has to assume that Castiel has gotten away with this Kelly-woman, because the demon only ever admitted to the boys having gotten arrested and there’s been no mention in the news of the PA being found safe and sound. So how does she track somebody who’ve been warded against her?

“I’ve always loved the Impalas. Is it yours?” An apologetic voice startles Leira in her thoughts.

Looking to where the curly-haired man is pointing, she notices a familiar vehicle parked in the farthest spot. _Baby._ “It belongs to a friend of mine. Drinks a lot per mile, but full of history.” She’s happy the couple can’t see the smile doesn’t reach her eyes at the moment.

“I always find two things help me if I’m feeling lost…a bit of travelling or some daydreaming.” The woman sounds familiar somehow, just like the guy.

Turning to face them, Leira’s met by nothing but empty air.

…

The only indication of time passing is due to the meals, assuming that they’re being served regularly. The little cell Sam’s confined to doesn’t allow for natural light to enter and the concrete walls are too thick to communicate with Dean through. It can’t have been much more than a day so far since the guy in charge of securing their testimony had stopped by. He had been an older man, unfortunately smart enough to understand that the worst torture isn’t always pain. So what else was there to do than to think, put together a physical exercise regime or daydream? Collapsing onto the narrow cot after the new workout, Sam manages to push aside the remaining frustration for a moment.

…

Walking down the wide bend of the staircase, Castiel feels the guilt gnaw at him. He has failed. The angel had not anticipated the emotional motivation for Kelly Kline to refuse to abort the monster of a child, but perhaps Mary can shed light on this. _Perhaps it’s a strictly female trait among humans?_

Looking around, Cas realizes that the place is too quiet. “Leira?” His voice echoes slightly against the hard walls and high ceiling, but no one answers. “Mary?!”

Still nothing. _Has something happened?_ Extending his consciousness allows him to sense Mary first, and although she’s unharmed it’s clear that she’s alarmed. The mother appears to be travelling by automobile towards the bunker. It will be hard to explain to the woman what has happened, yet he finds comfort that she’s guided by reason, favouring logic even when it comes to the safety of her children. The nephion on the other hand… _where is she?_

It takes a moment of patting his pocket before Cas finds the cell phone Dean has gotten him, finding and dialing Leira’s number is easily done, after all the angel has spent years now learning to use the human’s devices. The foreign voice requesting that he ‘leaves’ a message doesn’t throw him off either, and he does what’s required of him. Hopefully, both females will arrive at the bunker shortly and then they can pool their resources and find both Dean and Sam…and Kelly Kline.


	29. Once upon a dream

Slender arms reach around from behind Sam, dragging him closer to the soft, familiar curves of Leira’s body.

“Sam?” The whisper is barely loud enough to hear, still he smiles at the urgency in her voice. “Sam, listen to me.”

Something isn’t right, but the hunter doesn’t want to figure out what’s going on. Unable to recall the last time that he’s been close to another person, he just wants to savour it. Turning around slowly on the bed, he’s surprised how narrow it is. _Like a cot._ There’s barely room for them both and despite the flushness of their bodies he can’t feel the usual heat radiating from her. The moment he looks into the dark fire of her eyes, he knows why.

“I’m dreaming…”

“Yeah, I’ve been trying to reach you like this _so_ many times, babe.” Soft lips press upon his for a few seconds. “Listen. I need you to show me the faces of people you’ve seen. I can’t track you or Dean, but maybe I can find _them_.”

That’s a problem, though. He’s been kept in isolation, preventing him from seeing the faces of even the guards when they bring him food, so the last face he saw belongs to a man he doesn’t know the name of…and even if Sam’s good with faces and people this time he’d been trying to make a statement by appearing uninterested, giving him less time to memorize the looks of the man. He can only recall the pale complexion and white, short hair crowning a face graced with confidence.

In the end it’s no use trying as the features grow increasingly distorted with each attempt at recalling the memories. Ignoring Leira’s plea to stay calm he slams a fist into the wall, causing a numbing pain to travel up his arm and jolting him upright; cradling the limb, Sam looks from the spot beside him on the cot around the small cell. She’s gone. _No…I’m awake._

It had felt so good to have her back, to lie with their foreheads pressed against each other, and even if it wasn’t close to the real thing for a moment he’d felt hope. Perhaps the nephion will try infiltrating Dean’s sleep where she could have better luck thanks to the brother’s instinctual knack of observing anything and everything about an enemy, but in the meantime there’s work to be done and it starts with getting to see as many faces as possible of those working in the facility.

…

The shrill ringing of the cellphone brings Leira’s attention back to the present world. She’s tried repeatedly to re-establish a connection to Sam in the hopes that he’ll have fallen asleep again, and after that didn’t pan out she’s turned to Dean with just as little luck. Sighing, she unfolds herself from a lotus position and stretches the stiff legs while wriggling the toes to the digital jingle. The phone’s dancing along too, thanks to the vibration, while flashing angry blue letters into the darkness of the room. Mary. _Better get it over with._

The mother has been working hard since the boys’ arrest, often running several cases at once together with her British pals. Some of what she learns she passes on to Leira, hoping that it’ll help find Sam and Dean, but there has been nothing to go on. With each passing day, Mary’s hopes of finding the guys has dwindled, pushing her to accept new hunts to keep herself occupied. To distract herself.   
The tactic has spread to Castiel who has been doing his best to track down Kelly Kline. It has become his only mission while waiting until something in the boys’ situation changes and the angel can do something for them. Also, Leira suspects that finding the pregnant woman is a way for Cas to atone for the perceived sin of losing her in the first place. It was his job to get her away from the motel and ensure the abortion of the nephilim.

Swiping the green icon on the phone, Leira inhales in preparation to deliver the only news she has, but she never gets further than ‘hello’ before Mary dumps cold facts from a case on her. Something has been causing trouble in Tucson, Arizona, in the shape of odd illnesses and deaths paving the way for a few individuals. The American woman and her British affiliations believe it to be the work of one or more witches, something they’d normally handle on their own if they hadn’t been too tied up committing genocide on werewolves. So, this time they’re outsourcing, and Mary’s been getting the honour of choosing a hunter.

“Think you can handle it?” A bit of static makes mamma Winchester’s voice harder than normal.

“Send me what you got. But Mary…” Leira realizes she has to be quick when she hears people barking orders in the background. “I got through to Sam, they’re alive.”

Seconds tick by where the only sounds are from the lightbulbs in the bunker and the people wherever Mary is. “Both of them? Where are they?”

_If only I knew._ They hang up shortly after and hopefully the mother’s feeling reassured that her sons are alright and that Leira’s doing what she can to get to them. The hybrid, on the other hand, wants to get to Arizona and back again as quickly as possible to avoid wasting time on some idiots meddling with things beyond their grasp.


	30. The Arizona way

First rule of survival: never trust anyone.

Second rule of survival: never go unarmed.

Third rule of survival: never trust anyone.

Recently, Leira has been learning to trust at least a few people. _Really just one, but who’s counting?_ It’s been wonderful to know that Sam has her back and that she’s able to let her guard down as long as she’s in the bunker, but the same faith doesn’t extend to Mary and especially not the organisation from across the pond. They’re hunters. Leira’s a monster as far as the mother might think, and to the British Men of Letters she is (if possible) something worse: an unknown player that they haven’t had a chance to identify. Sending such an element into a trap would be a simple way of eliminating any questionable third party while making it look like an accident with no clear culprit to blame for the demise of the ‘unfortunate’ victim.

Checking every lead possible from afar, Leira prepares an efficient plan for tracking down and eliminating the threat. All but one of the suspects have families and appear to be blessed with the best (and most inexplicable) luck…except for the people dropping dead to make the opportunities happen. And how did the poor sods snuff it? Stomach full of glass, sudden horde of wasps inside a supermarket, all bodily orifices suddenly grown shut – all things that can’t be explained away easily. The list goes on and is decorated with colourful crime scene photos.

_It checks out…time to go._

The soft sound of Leira’s wings is drowned in the fluttering of pigeons taking off with startled coos. Humans often underestimate these winged creatures, worrying that the birds carry diseases, but the nephion has learned to rely on them as a sort of alarm system. The birds avoid neighbourhoods that aren’t safe due to supernatural activities and they react quickly to newcomers, making enough noise when they take off to wake a lightly sleeping hybrid up before it’s too late. _Sleep._ Leira hasn’t slept since she was revived by Chuck and Amara, but she doesn’t miss it, not even as she watches the pigeons settle down on the steel rafters above. Leira’s gaze drifts from the birds to the rest of the surroundings. Dirty, crumbling concrete and half rusted metal walls that indicate where the different sections of the factory used to be. Here and there are large crates with remnants of machinery that never got brought away. From this abandoned factory there’s not even half a mile to the nearest mega-shopping-center and a car in dire need of a new, temporary owner.

…

It had been standing with only a rusty scooter and a dirt-bike, which nearly was the literal meaning of that hyphenated word. Clearly not a place for a beauty of that kind with the deep-red paintjob gleaming in the descending sun and a V-twin engine, so Leira had done the only responsible thing by deciding to take care of the Scout Sixty…at least for a while. That way she won’t have to appear out of nowhere, startling random people and risking getting outed too soon.

Cruising through Suburbia-hell, she’s found the homes of the coven members and watched each of the ladies arrive at a guy’s home. She’d been surprised to find him in the role of the coven leader and it ticks around in the back of Leira’s brain as she rolls around the corners, checking out the houses. _Of course, men can be witches._ The gardens are small and neatly kept in the area (probably by underpaid gardeners) while the homes take up the majority of the space. Flimsy porches with white-painted pillars and fake stonework set off the dusty pastel facades in a way that should only exist in the lifestyle magazines the upper middle class appears to live in. _The American dream._ Growing up, Leira has seen it develop and get twisted, and she has promised herself not to be like that…becoming so dependant on one single place is dangerous in a world full of monsters. Finding a relatively sheltered bend, she parks the motorbike and pats it fondly before heading back on foot towards the coven’s gathering place.

The perfectly laid stone path leading to the front steps curves gently past herbs useful in rituals and potions. Hemlock, yarrow (for the root) and meadowsweet are dotted between camomile and sage, all innocent looking enough to the unknowing. The house itself appears to be without wards, setting Leira on edge because nothing generally is that simple when witches are involved and at the very least these humans would have an inkling of an idea of what’s out there, so they should have tried to protect themselves. _They did make sure the doorknob is silvered,_ she thinks fleetingly while knocking on the door, her face ready like a mask.

The friendly smile doesn’t reach the man’s eyes. “Can I help you?” Subdued chatter is heard from somewhere further inside the house.

“I’m s-sorry.” Tears are already forming in Leira’s eyes and her lips are quivering. “A friend told me you c-could help me. Please! My bo-boyfriend’s _gone_ ‘n the p’lice aren’t lookin’ I’ll give you _anythin’_ please help me!” In two steps she’s thrown herself into his unprepared embrace and clings on to the astounded witch.

She hides a smirk when he pats her awkwardly. “Alright, there. Why don’t you come on in and we’ll see what we can do.”

…

The nephion has told the little group of gullible witches a sob story worthy to be a teenage novel without revealing her own true nature. They way she sees it, she might as well try to get some information while she’s there. The coven doesn’t try to hide their magical powers nor are they interested in knowing exactly who has referred her to them, all the witches care about is what Leira’s ready to give in return for their help.

“Anythin’. I just need to know he’s _safe_.”

The coven exchanges glances before urging one of the younger women to talk for the first time. “We’ll just need a favour from you,” the voice is melodic, soothing, “to summon our teacher. He can help, but his price is high. One soul for each desire.”

_A demon. Borrower witches are always the worst._ “That’s how it works? He can give powers and grant wishes, but he needs a soul in return?”

Thick ropes appear from out of nowhere, snaking themselves around Leira and preventing her from getting out of the chair as the magical jerks scramble to get their gear ready. A large knife and a copper bowl are carried towards the bound victim by the male witch while his colleagues cover the coffee table with cloth, candles, and other oddities.

“This won’t hurt…for long.” He practically purrs, raising the knife.

All it takes is a simple flash for Leira to disappear and reappear in the seat. Now free of the bonds she palms the witch’s forehead, instinctually pouring energy through his skull until pink light shines from every orifice, including the eyes that are burned out. It’s over as soon as it began, ending with an explosion of a fine, pink liquid. The three remaining witches recover quickly, one actually manages to telepathically hurl a paperweight towards Leira, only to find themselves pinned side by side against the wall. They plead. They cry. They beg for mercy, claiming those they’ve killed had it coming, but it’s no use and the only mercy they receive is that of a swift death by the angel blade.

Trying to breathe calmly, Leira watches as her hands begin to shake and she feels the bile roiling in the stomach. The nephion is no stranger to killing, it’s a necessity that has been part of her entire life and her mother has raised her to feel proud when ridding the world of evildoers (mainly in an effort to appease her dad) – the world is better off without this coven. But memories of times long gone force Leira to her knees. Memories with several pink glows and the screams of the victims before they were vaporized…by her father’s hand. He had not wanted her to see neither the fight nor how he went from one injured angel to the other where he placed his big, strong hand on their forehead in the same way Leira did just a moment ago to the male witch. _Daddy…what have I done?_ When her father came back into the cabin he’d been pale and silent, not answering the questions a young child has after a frightening situation, but she had understood that what he’d done was bad, worse than any other way to kill, and the little Leira accepted that using powers in that way must be wrong. _I didn’t know._ Looking at her hands, it’s not the few bloodstains that make them seem foreign, it’s the way she’d used them to channel that damned pink energy to kill with. _I shouldn’t…I didn’t mean…dad…_

…

_CAS!_ The silent scream deafens Castiel’s own thoughts and he instinctively orients himself towards the location of the source, abandoning the cold trail. He has never seen the crossbreed frightened before, not even in the last moment of her old life and since then Leira has at the most been bewildered or unsure until successfully learning anything she could to deal with any situation at hand, so hearing the frantic plea in her call, Castiel fears the worst.

He sees Leira first, petrified with fear and still clutching the blade that’s dripping crimson. Taking in the remainder of the surroundings, Castiel finds himself torn between the relief of finding any threat eliminated or the dismay upon finding a large area covered by the pink remains. _Rit Zien’s way of smiting._

Turning to the nephion, Cas begins to suspect what has occurred. “What happened?” He must know for sure.

The words don’t seem to reach Leira, but as he reaches out she shies away. It takes the female several attempts before she’s able to complete the tale although she keeps any emotion, any speculation, out of it, like a soldier reporting to their commander. All the while, her wings are quivering and she often unfurls them nervously.

“You’ve…taken lives before, have you not?”

Midway through nodding, she seems to notice the bloodied weapon. “Yes. I’m not regretting _what_ I did…” bending, she wipes the smears of the triangular blade on the clothes of a beheaded woman, “it’s…it’s how.” Her shrug encompasses the entire room, though most likely referring to the colourful layer.

“You told us indirectly that you’ve seen the result of a Rit Zien smiting before.” Castiel can feel how his brows are knitting, a bothersome habit he’s adopted since acquiring the vessel years ago. “Why does it affect you so much?”

Leira’s no longer paying attention to him. Instead she’s searching for something under the low table, retrieving a female head with short blond hair and placing it by the corpse it used to be attached to. For a few seconds, she lingers to close the empty, staring eyes of the human. _No revulsion from seeing the blood and gore._ Having spend most of his existence as a soldier and participated in countless battles with his brothers and sisters, Castiel isn’t squeamish around death no matter how violent it may be. Life, he’s learned, is a kaleidoscope of choices and wishes. Sometimes bad ones that lead to destruction. Clearing his voice, the angel inquires about the victims and he’s pleased to hear the reasons why Leira deemed it necessary for them to die…glad to hear that no nefarious desire has pushed her to kill innocents.

…

“I once…” walking slowly side by side down the quiet street, Leira speaks haltingly, “I once saw dad do… _that_. The…poof-thing…”

It’s hardly the word Castiel would’ve chosen, but it’s oddly descriptive in a childish way. “That was when you were a child and he had to defend you?”

She nods. “Every angel he knelt by,” the nephion glances briefly at him, “the ones that were alive, I mean…he did that.” Dark wings begin to droop slightly.

“Smote them.”

For a while, they walk in silence, slowly putting the suburbs behind them and heading out into the open stretches of land. The road they follow is not big even if it feeds to the highway further west, and there’s very little traffic. _The humans must be at work._ Unlike other creatures, humans tend to fill their days with an inordinate number of tiny tasks meant not only to ensure their survival, but also for the sake of entertainment. Much of this requires money which are earned, primarily, through completion of other tasks for someone else. The whole system appears puzzling at first, at least for the angels, and Cas prides himself of understanding it better than anyone else from Heaven because he had lived the life of a human for a while. He had _been_ human.

“He never explained it.” Leira’s voice cajoles his focus back to the conversation. “I never thought I could do it! And if I new…I shouldn’t have done that to the witch…”

He ignores the sensation of his brows drawing together above his nose. “Why not?”

“Well it’s…bad!”

They both stop at the same time, facing each other and motionless, meaning that the only movements are the wayward leaves carried off on the winds created by Leira’s flapping limbs. _Bad?_ Insomuch that it always is unfortunate to end a life, yes, it could be considered to be bad. And admittedly, smiting is very painful for the victim in the few seconds it lasts. _That’s not what she means._

Studying his face, the shorter female must have noticed his confusion: “…isn’t it?”

The question is asked meekly, and Cas is reminded of exactly how little she knows of the angelic ways. Leira’s a diligent student who admits her own shortcomings and understands the limitations of knowledge specifically referring to her kind.

“No, Leira. Smiting is no worse than killing in any other way.” It feels both natural and strange when he places a hand on her shoulder. “Trust me when I say, you’ve done nothing wrong.”

He hopes she believes him because he actually means every single word, and this is the first time that the two of them, an angel of the Lord and a nephion, are able to talk about somewhat personal matters freely. Acknowledging the human emotions within, Cas admits silently that it feels…good. A step in the right direction.


	31. Breakout

It has taken weeks for Leira to get to the right people. Weeks with sporadic contact to Sam or Dean and the disjointed clues they could provide, but finally she’s face to face with one of the few men who knows where the Winchester brothers are. Not the head of the Secret Service assigned to protect the president, as she had feared she’d have to. But this agent had been Sanchez’ assistant when he personally oversaw that the boys had been brought away and locked up. John Carver. _Boring name._

“What makes you think I know anything?” Despite a few loose teeth and a broken nose, agent Carver’s voice is clear and calm.

Leira stops her slow pacing in front of the spruce she’s tied him to. Out here, in the middle of nowhere, she’ll be able to work him over without having to worry about the agency tracing him…they are miles away from a trail, let alone a road, and she’d flashed the man there while he was unconscious. _Give him something, make him think you’re weak or untrained._

“The right questions here and there until I reached the top of the food chain, Johnny.”

A tiny smile curls her lips, when she sees how he accepts the information. Truth be told, she hadn’t needed to ask anything because a few fingers on their foreheads was enough to grant her access to their memories even if the first few attempts had been sloppy…she might accidentally have done a bit of damage but nothing that wouldn’t heal over time. Tugging on the leather gloves, Leira smiles at what is to come this time before resorting to digging through the man’s mind.

Struggling against the ropes, Carver tries to straighten up. “Nothing you can do will make me give up the president.”

“How noble and defiant.” The softness of the pat on his cheek surprises the man. “But I don’t give a shit about your president.”

“…who do you work for?”

“No one.”

A rogue player without ties or a dictated modus operandi. The agent’s reddish complexion manages to pale significantly at the thought. “Then what do you want?”

“You’ve taken something from me. Someone.” Picking up a bundle of coarse stems with red dots and sturdy bristles. Sap is leaking from where the broad, jagged leaves had been attached with hollow stalks, the nephion makes sure Carver has time to identify the plant while she rips his shirt open to bare the parts of his chest that isn’t covered by ropes. Giant hogweed. “And I need to know where I can find him and his brother.”

…

Sam has always prided himself of patience and the ability to entertain himself through his intellect. Still, as time passes it’s not enough to keep the desperation at bay, and if _he_ feels like that then he doesn’t want to consider how it must be for Dean. His big brother, who only can sit still if there’s a movie and enough beers at hand, must be going absolutely crazy. Through out their time, they’ve been injured, tortured, and a few times even died. All of it had been bloody and painful, but nothing like what they’re going through now. They’re not supposed to be locked away, when there’s so much evil out in the world to fight!

Hopefully Cas has found a way to deal with Kelly and her unborn monster by now, but nothing Leira had said last time Sam had managed to fall asleep made him optimistic. She’d tried to skirt around any subject not directly related to getting him and Dean out of the prison they’re in.

Stretching out on the too short bunk, the tall hunter begins to count the blemishes on the concrete ceiling for the umpteenth time.

“Hello, Sam.”

The familiarity of the velvety voice startles him, and he nearly pulls a muscle when he jerks upright to see who it is. _Billie the reaper._

…

John Carver had talked. Of course, playing around with the plant had been for the fun of it before beginning the real work, now the ground is soaked enough to make squishy sounds whenever she took a step and the agent is barely conscious. Leira manages to find a snippet of his shirt that’s not drenched blood like everywhere else to wipe the triangular blade off with. What had surprised her was the pain she had felt during the interrogation. It hadn’t been strictly physical, but whatever she had done to him had resonated within her. _Is that new?_ She can’t remember that ever happening before, like when she was sparring with Dean or when they’d been on the hunt for the wendigo. It had caught her off guard, nearly making her falter despite the resolution to find the Winchester boys no matter the cost.

“Hhhhnnnghhh?”

Looking at the lolling head, she reaches a decision. “I’ll make sure your friends find you.” _Alive._

…

Dean and he are on the same page, agreeing on what has to be done and how far they’ll go to make sure they succeed. _Minimal casualties but show no weakness._ Still, the brother’s words as he spoke over the Walkie-talkie had sent chill down Sam’s spine...it conjured up memories from a time not long enough ago where those words would’ve been followed with a cold bloodlust.

The sun’s setting when they stumble into a clearing featuring an old cabin. It looks weathered and sturdy but most importantly: empty.

“That’ll work.”

Following his brother, they cover the distance to the door and within minutes they’re busy preparing the trap.

…

Steel, sheet metal and concrete. Nothing on the outside gives away the nature of the building except the many surveillance cameras that cover every angle at the few entrances. _Go big or go home._ Following the mother’s advice, Leira marches straight up to the nearest door (possible one meant for emergencies) and treats it to an enthusiastic meeting with her boot. The explosive clatter when the door becomes part of the flooring is bound to have drawn attention, so the nephion moves swiftly to orient herself and find the first place she needs to visit.

The third guard offers to help Leira after a fraction of convincing, admitting not only the way to the security hub and the cells, but also providing her with a set of keys and a key card. In return, she leaves him alive in a utility closet after relieving him of his weapons. Following the new directions, Leira’s led past corners and up a flight of stairs before encountering anyone again. This man is anything but a grunt, judging by the suit, and he’s too enthralled in the phone conversation that he doesn’t look up when she steps up behind him.

“ – reinforcements are still an hour out, but do you really think it’s necessary?” Whatever is said at the other end makes him hold his breath briefly. “Alright, keep me posted.” As he clicks the phone off, he whispers ‘damn fugitives’.

_Fugitives? Sam and Dean?_ “Lost someone?” Leira purrs while aiming the impressive gun at the man’s gut.

Few things are as alarming as being met by a somewhat blood-spattered stranger holding a weapon, and she has to give him credit for staying calm when he turns to see who’s there. He might be wearing a tailored outfit, but he’s had military training judging by his pose and the way he takes in every relevant bit of information about Leira.

“Who’re you?” He barks, expecting an answer. “What’re you doing here?”

He’s reaching for a Glock and Leira foils his plan with the flick of a hand that sends him against the wall, nothing the soft drift of dust released from the ceiling above as the impact resonates through the building materials. She doesn’t have time for playing games this time. At least not if her theory is correct.

“I’ll be your worst nightmare if you don’t answer me.” With blackened eyes, the nephion sees how he pales, probably trying to find a logical explanation that doesn’t involve anything supernatural. “The Winchesters?” He nods weakly. “Last know location.”

A remnant of his training rears it’s head only to be smothered by adding to the invisible pressure that’s keeping him pinned with his feet dangling above the floor.

“A cabin…”

…

The light has lured the Secret Service or whatever they are to the derelict shed and they’ve surrounded it with any high-caliber weapon aimed at the thin walls. Shoot first, ask questions later. This isn’t a game where they all walk out alive, and Sam and Dean have to make sure they are the ones left standing when it’s finished. Not because they harbour any hope of living nice and quietly afterwards, but because there’s work to do and friends to help. _Saving people. Hunting things. The family business._ It’s hard to remember a time before the weight of the world came crashing down on them, back when it was just lowkey hunting that kept them occupied between the hustling and hanging out with Bobby or other hunters. They’d dreamt of real lives.

Sam doesn’t have a lot of room to maneuver in. The little basement is meant solely for storage, not for people, but he’s managed to get himself into a crouching position with the semi-automatic pointing towards the floorboards above. _No killing_. He’d gotten Dean to agree on that before watching his brother sneaking out of the tiny building armed with nothing but a knife, but quiet as a cat.

The creak of footsteps on the stairs are faint, and Sam isn’t sure he’s heard it right until he hears the door itself opened. With each step the solder or agent above takes, little plumes of dust are released and drift towards the cold ground Sam’s squatting on. Three steps. Two steps. One. He prays that none of the shots fired are lethal to the guy upstairs as he hears him fall with an agonized scream, but there’s no time to wait and assess the situation by listening to the sounds of the wounded. Rolling on his hip, the hunter abandons the safety of hideout and pushes the hatch open before snatching his arm back. It turns out to be a wise decision. The partner of whomever Sam had shot through the floor releases a round, turning the wooden structure into Swizz cheese within second before silence is allowed to fall again. Or at least partial silence. He can still he the groans of the soldier, and from outside can be heard grunting and the wet tearing of flesh. Someone, he hopes it’s Dean, finishes the fight with a thudding sound that must be from knocking the opponent out. In the cabin, the only noise is the hesitant movement of someone in heavy armour.

…

Leira has found the right place, there’s no doubt about it. Several camouflage-clad soldier-types are aiming their full attention at a weathered building and it appears some have already entered it, for better or for worse. Even through the rain that has started falling, she can taste the metallic scent in the air that proves it’s been for the worse for someone…and probably not the brothers. She has flashed into the clearing behind the enemy’s lines and as of yet, no one’s noticed her, making it all to easy to step up behind the nearest and render him unconscious, nice and painless. Pain. There’s so much of it and even when trying to block it out, it lingers and gnaws at her conscience.

Movement catches her eye further towards the hut and she follows effortlessly in the stranger’s trace. Oddly, he’s carrying a handgun instead of the near canon-like weapons that the other guy had, but no kind of weapon can help him when he takes the wrong step, planting a boot covered foot in a metal contraption that immediately snaps around his ankle making him fall to the ground. _Sanchez._ He’s the guy that She’s at him in two steps, hands resting on his scalp when she hears a familiar voice.

“Don’t touch him.” Dean squares off before the trapped man, casually kicking away the weapon he’s dropped. “I told you…you’d be trapped.”

_This is the warrior, the man that could carry the Mark of Cain._ The bowlegged hunter is calm, confident in a situation that most people would fear because he’s been through worse and come out on top. And though Leira has skirted as many confrontations as possible, she shares that same trust, even when rustling of wet leaves hails the arrival of an older, more experienced player.

“Get them! Shoot him!” Sanchez yells.

Leira’s hand is already lifting to send the old fellow through the air, preferably hitting a tree at some point, when Sam steps out of the shadows from nowhere and presses the muzzle against the temple where white hairs are visible underneath the beanie. If the agent takes a shot, it’ll guarantee his own death whereas cooperating might land him and the trapped Sanchez an opportunity to negotiate.

“You want the truth?” The growl Sam emits sends pleasant shivers down Leira’s spine. “The president was possessed by the devil.”

“We _saved_ him.” Dean pockets Sanchez’ gun, joining him as he moves to flank his brother.

Smiling back over her shoulder, the nephion can see the humans’ confusion and distrust. “You can take that and do what you want with it…”

The tall man manages a smile despite the situation. “That’s the truth.” He’s lowered the riffle, pointing it on the ground, but he’s still holding it ready to aim and fire with nothing more than a few seconds warning. There’s no one left to attack them. There’s no one left who even could threaten them.

“But if you come after us, you know what will happen.” Clearly, they believe every word Dean says.

 “Can you get us out of here?” Sam’s lips are brushing near her ears when they all three stick their heads together.

Shrugging, Leira looks from one brother to the other. “Only one at a time.” She can see the silent argument as the men eye each other, neither one wanting to leave the other behind. “Better get walking then, 34 is a couple of miles away.”

They haven’t even gone three steps before Sanchez calls out: “Who _are_ you?!”

Tired of the endless lack of faith and too frustrated with the many weeks of searching for her partner and his brother, Leira turns to face the crippled man. His ankle is splintered, causing more pain that he wants to let off, and still he’s hell bend on learning about the Winchesters and their weaknesses.

…

It’s impossible to tell where the light is coming from, if it’s from Leira or somewhere else and now the brothers see it again, Sam’s reminded of the few times they’ve witnessed it before. Bright light illuminating an area and throwing jagged shadows across the surfaces and among them the large pair of wings that are clearly visible on the wall of the cabin and the surrounding tree-trunks. _Midnight blue._ He’s never shown Dean the feather, because somehow it seemed…private.

“Don’t you get it?” The soft whisper is bone chilling and both agents are staring open-mouthed at the creature they thought was simply a woman.

Reaching out, Sam gingerly takes her newly calloused hand and as the light subsides, she turns and follows him. This time, not even Dean looks back when barking out the answer. “We’re the guys that save the world.”

They set out in silence. The two humans wielding flashlights as they trudge through the undergrowth, this time less careful about the noise they make. The further they get from the cabin, the more optimistic they are about their chances of making it to the road and there, hopefully, finding Cas and their mother. Having been separated from each other had been horrible, even thought they both knew the other was safe, all things considered…but nothing had kept them apart for so long since Sam went to Stanford. So yeah, their first priority had probably been each other, while mom, Castiel, and Leira had taken the backburner until they got out. At least three of them are together now.

Glancing down at the woman, he knows that she wants to know how they got out. “How’d you find us?”

“I talked with people. “ The tiniest of pauses precedes the second word, making Sam bite his cheek to avoid commenting on it. “Followed the trail of information and hearsay until I found Sanchez’ man who told me about the facility. Eventually.”

A heavy hand lands on the nephion’s shoulder and spins her around in the tracks to look at its owner. “How d’you make them talk?” Dean’s shining the light in her face.

“Relax, I didn’t _kill_ ‘nyone.” She scoffs, looking almost disappointed at the thought. “Most didn’t realize I was getting info…”

As she shrugs the hunter’s hand off, Sam is filled with both relief and worry. _Most._ “What about the rest?”

“You heard her…no one died. Let’s just be happy she got here and then get going.”

“Aw, Deano…you going soft on me? Wanna hug?” _Stop it._ Scooping the woman close to his side, Sam resumes the brisk hike even while dragging her along. He can feel her body shudder lightly under his fingers and he can hear the laughter even when she whispers only for him to hear: “I missed you the most, darling.”

…

How Sammy has managed to keep the nephion distracted from asking the wrong question is beyond him, and afterwards they’ve staved off the onslaught of questions from the two English men, mom, and Cas. Still, Dean knows it’s just a matter of time before they’re forced to explain to the others what is going on. _Not yet._ He’s tired to the bones and the brothers should’ve reached a decision by now. _Why did we keep postponing it?_ There’d been plenty of time in the woods even if they were running, but somehow deciding who got to stay and who had to die was too hard to talk about…and now they’re here. In a car with the ragtag family, waiting for the inevitable without a clear plan. _Not Sammy. Whatever he says, I can’t let it be him._ Already, the little brother’s pulling away from the people he loves, the ones that make him happy and give him a reason to go on, so if there’s any way to get them to hold on to him and convince him there’s something to stay for, then Dean will do everything in his power to ensure that Sam will live a full life. The steel of the gun is already the same temperature as his skin, but the weight is like lead against his rib. Just one bullet left. A deal’s a deal and this one can’t be broken.

The brothers know instantly when the car stalls in the middle of the deserted road.

“It’s time.”

The words feel clumsy and foreign as they leave Dean’s lips, spurring Sammy to get out of the car with him and the others follow. Confused. Worried. Reactions that don’t leave when Billie appears, and the explanation finally is given.

“Why would you –?” Watching the pain is mother’s eyes is horrible, and he’s relieved on some messed up level when Sam turns to her.

“Fucking morons!” Mary’s stupor is rattled by the outraged shout from Leira. “You _knew_ I was on my way! You KNEW we’d _never_ leave you in there! Are you _really_ so intend on sacrificing yourselves at any chance you get?! Like a bloody _Winchester Code_!?”

Holding both women with a hand on each their shoulders, Sam’s too calm for Dean’s liking. “We were already dea–“

“No, you weren’t!”

“Leira…” She doesn’t look to him but shuts up long enough for Dean to explain. “Being locked in that cell with nothing…I’ve been to Hell.” Swallowing dryly at the memory, he has to force it aside before he can continue.

“This was worse.” Sam had understood when Billie passed the message on.

He accepted the madness and having him by his side, Dean knows why he has to carry on. “At least this way, one of us gets to keep fighting.”

So far, so good. It all makes sense and now he just has to find a way to tell Sammy that the one who’ll be doing the fighting isn’t Dean. But one word takes another and suddenly his own mom is laying her head on the block and the reaper is prepared to do what reapers to best and carry a soul away as if it means nothing. Everything in the hunter is telling him to move. To fight. _I can’t let someone else die._ The mental scream at his legs to move is as affective as asking a Hell Hound to play fetch. Everything has slowed down, except his mom’s goodbye that echoes inside his head as her silhouette stands out like a black papercut against the bright light spilling from the reaper’s eyes and mouth, slicing past the silver of a triangular blade poking from her chest. Then the empty vessel lands lifelessly on the damp asphalt.

“Cas?” _A blood pact._ The repercussions will be off the charts and Dean’s sense of purpose abandons him, plummeting into a void without directions. “What have you done?”

“What had to be done. You know this world…this sad, doomed, little world…it needs you.” Castiel has a way of sounding gruffer when he needs to get a point across. Now he sounds like a rock slide. “It needs _every_ last Winchester it can get, and I will _not_ let you die. I won't let any of you die. And I won't let you sacrifice yourselves. You mean too much to me, to everything. Yeah, you made a deal. You made a stupid deal, and I broke it. You're welcome.”

To think that Cas once was cold and cynical is unthinkable, and Dean would have denied the possibility if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, but that was years ago and since then, the angel has become more than just a friend. He’s become someone who’ll do the right thing. Of course, he’d have their back even now.

“Leira?” Panic’s glowing in Sam’s eyes as the rest turn to look towards him and the place where the nephion had been moments ago. Now there’s no one, only the few firearms she’d been carrying. “Where’s Leira?”


	32. Consequences

The bright light fades abruptly, and even without opening her eyes, Leira knows that she’s no longer with the Winchesters and Castiel. Wherever she is, it doesn’t feel right. It’s warm, humid, and smells slightly of rotting leaves instead of cold and wet asphalt. _I have to get back to them._ Reaching out with her senses, she finds places that are almost like where she just was, almost, then she concentrates on the bunker only to end up with the same distorted result.

“You can’t fly away from this world.”

The woman speaking is behind Leira who whips around with the blade still out. Although she’s pale and her cheekbones stand sharp, she doesn’t seem frail. Far from. In fact, there’s something familiar about the thin figure and her dark, wavy hair that frames the stern face.

“Where’ve you brought me?” Leira snarls. “Who’re you?”

Plump lips curve into an overbearing kind of smile. “We’ve met before…together with my brother.”

_When I was looking for Sam and Dean._ “The motel. You and a curly-haired dude.” Large waves bob and dance in agreement. “Doesn’t explain much.”

“You were brought back to life by me together with my brother…Chuck.” The last words are accompanied by a perfectly executed eyeroll that makes Leira think the woman doesn’t agree with the choice of name.

_Chuck. Amara? What the Hell?_ “So, you…thank you…” _But why?_

“Oh, you’ve got a role to play still,” the self-proclaimed Amara announces as if she’s read Leira’s mind, “and I’m curious. You might just be the perfect compromise in all of my brother’s creation.”

It would be too optimistic to say that the nephion trusts the other woman’s claim or intentions, but for now she’s the only chance Leira has at making sense of what’s going on and to get back, so she lowers the weapon before studying the surroundings for the first time. Tall trees that could belong to a subtropical or temperate climate zone are reaching high above the heads of the women, obscuring the bright sky. She can hear the insects chittering and birds singing in ways that are unfamiliar to her in much the same way that a song from a foreign country would be. And still…those are not the reasons everything seems alien.

“This isn’t….erm…earth?” A chunk of ice has been dropped into Leira’s chest.

“Oh, it is.” Amara smiles, poking absentmindedly at a rotting branch poking out between the leaves on the ground. “It’s just not _your_ earth.”

In all too few words, the deity explains that she’s brought the other woman to a different dimension to learn what she can before its too late. The words fall casually as if this is something that anyone would do from time to time in much the same way other people would go to see a movie, and she doesn’t seem to grasp the deep-seated dread that Leira’s experiencing of being stuck in a foreign place with no means to contact her friends.

“If you won’t tell me how I can get back, then _please_ let them know this wasn’t _my_ doing!” The nephion’s voice rises, startling the nearest birds into flight. “Tell them I’m okay but tell them…tell him I want to come back to home to him.”

Somewhere in the distance, something rumbles and sends shockwaves through the ground that makes the frail stalks of grass and delicate flowers tremble, discarding the last drops from an earlier shower. And as the liquid begins to evaporate from the ground, it lifts both familiar and strange fragrances into the air that’s standing still in here between the trees where the sun breaks the shadows like dots of paint on a dark canvas. _What am I up against here?_ A new rumble, this time closer, silences the forest and triggers the alien to turn in the hope of seeing what is causing the tremors. Nothing, at least nothing that can be seen.

“Amara…” Leira turns back only to find herself standing alone.

The goddess is gone, leaving the nephion behind with a shitload of questions and no hints as to why she’s been brought to this earth. _A parallel universe?_ At least some things appear to follow the same rules as where she’s from: gravity is about the same, the air too, and anywhere with living beings there’s a hierarchy. Kill or be killed. Leira can work with that, as long as she has a chance of staying on top of the food chain. New tremors travel through the ground, even closer this time and giving a distinct sensation that it’s something living creating it rather than a natural phenomenon. _Time to get out of the way._

…

The ride back to the bunker had been highly uncomfortable and very little improved after they got home. Getting back into the world had gotten a lot more awkward because the British Men of Letters had helped, and that mom apparently was a lot closer to those guys that he’d expected after what that tea-drinking, pompous bitch had done. Even if he ignored that, there was still the whole issue with Billie and the deal that no one else had been ready to see the need for…including Cas who just went and blew the whole thing with no regards for the inevitable consequences. And they’d been one person short in the car.

Despite Sammy’s pleading, Castiel still hasn’t been able to sense the nephion’s whereabouts, and the only thing keeping the younger brother somewhat sane is a naïvely optimistic belief that the woman wouldn’t just leave them randomly.

“No, Dean.” The hunters are sitting with each their stack of books and files. “If she wanted out, then she wouldn’t’ve gone through the trouble of tryin’ t’ find us.”

_He’s got a point._ “That was ‘fore she met Ketch and Davies.” Snapping a book shut, Dean flails his arms in surrender. “Look, I’m not saying she wants out…I’m just –“

“I know! She’s not used to anyone having her back.” At least this time, Sam isn’t blaming himself for the woman’s disappearance. “But she wouldn’t have left without a word.”

That’s the point the man keeps getting back to. _If_ the woman did leave voluntarily, then she’d have contacted them as soon as possible and it’d been several days now. Ergo, Leira flashing out of there had not been part of the plan, which unfortunately is further supported by Cas’ constant inability to sense her. But what could have taken her like that? Billie getting killed was simply not explanation enough on its own and they’d found nothing in the lore, news, or anywhere else that could shed any light on it.

“Okay. But we’re stuck on this and we’ve got too many cases piling up, plus Cas’s getting nowhere on Kelly Kline!” He can recognize Sammy’s stubborn compliance even before sticking the obvious to him. “We have to keep doing what we do best.”

The two brothers have different ways of dealing with personal problems. Neither of them tend to chose a method Doctor Phil would approve off all the time, and Dean has to go with his guts to find a compromise between what Sam or he’d do, and what they need to do. After having been sitting on their asses for so long in a tiny cell, everything in the older brother is screaming to celebrate freedom in a bar because nothing can get your mind off things like a couple of drinks, some rock, and a nice lady… _but that doesn’t work for Sammy._ The best compromise he’s bee able to find is a potential haunting in Arkansas. That way they get back on the road and the hunt (which they’ve been away from for too long), Baby gets to be taken for a spin, and Sam can enjoy some nerdy lore- and history-browsing to work the case.

Turning the laptop for the other man to see, Dean gets up to head to the kitchen. _It’ll be good to get out._ The vacuum of the fridge’s seal breaks with a soft ‘schwop’. There’s not a lot on the cold shelves, but somewhere under the few blood bags and next to the fresh bottles of beers he’s able to find the leftovers from the pizzas last night.

“Seriously?” Sam calls from the library. “There’s _gotta_ be _some_ one closer who can handle a simple haunting.”

The remaining slices are meant as road snacks, of course, but deciding it’s better to test if they’re still good, Dean slips out one and bites into it. “Hmm…” he has to speak past the chunk of Meatlover’s Supreme, “tha’s no ‘e poin’.” Even as he swallows, he admits that pizza shouldn’t go alone. “The point is, Sammy, that we need to _ease_ back into the game.” Picking a beer, he closes the fridge with a last stab of dejection by the sight of the blood bags. “We need to get back in the rhythm of things before throwing ourselves at the big guys.”

…

Accepting the logic of his older brother, Sam skims through the articles describing the anything but natural death of a couple. _Yeah, it’s a case._ It’s impressive how often people will accept impossible explanations as long as it keeps the dark monsters nicely hidden away as superstition. _It’s easier._ Closing the laptop, he yells for Dean that they should get on it, then heads to his room to grab the few things he needs, tossing it in a duffel bag along with a few books. Dean will bring both Dad’s and Bobby’s journals as usual.

Looking around for anything he might have forgotten, Sam spots the midnight blue feather on the desk. _Where are you?_ It’s nearly as long as his foot, and the dark barbs thrum softly when he runs it along the fingers, feeling its flexibility and breathing in the fading scent of peaches and something he can never quite grasp.

_Soft feathers stroke his face, arms…everywhere. Blurry, familiar features are the only visible figures in a green darkness that makes him think of old forests or jungles._

_“Sam.” The face before him keeps morphing as a chorus of voices whispers to him. “Don’t worry about Leira. She’ll return.”_

_He’d thought it was Leira at first, but now the person has changed too much and is constantly wavering between looking like Amara and Chuck. An odd mix even if ignoring anything else about the situation. Questions and worries are lining up, ready to be thrown at the illusion. _

_“We can’t answer your questions yet, Sam, but you should know that she demanded we let you know she didn’t leave of her own free will.” For a few seconds, Chuck’s face looks truly sorry. “ You can’t get to her, and she can’t return before she’s completed her task. But don’t worry.”_

The mossy darkness is chased away by the light in his room where he still is standing, a duffle bag at his feet and a quill in his shaking hands.


	33. Welcome to the jungle

Whether this world Leira is in, is in a parallel dimension or universe hardly matters as the days go by, eventually stretching into weeks. _Two weeks, exactly_. The air here is cleaner than she’s used to from home where industrialism and growing populations have tainted the nature, and without the polluting vehicles, cities, and factories there’s no constant noise to drown out the little sounds either.   
After acquiring some sort of basic understanding of the place and animals, the nephion has taken to search for some sort of civilization, knowing that without humans and their blood, she’ll be in trouble.

Perched on thick branch and hidden behind the evergreen foliage she has an excellent view between the widely spread trees to watch the sporadic traffic on a narrow path. Earlier that day, she’d found it in the denser part of the forest and followed it to this place where she saw the first sign of life intelligent enough to use tools. A snare, expertly rigged and hidden in the undergrowth, is waiting for an unsuspecting animal and in turn someone hoping to catch a meal. All the woman has to do is wait and see who turns up and then follow them discreetly back to their hovel or village.

A distant roar makes the nephion’s head whip around to pinpoint the place of origin. Breathing slowly, she looks for sudden movements by flocks of birds or anything else fleeing before the giant creature. Leira had heard it the very first day she’d arrived but had flashed out of there before catching a glimpse of it…on the fourth day, however, she wanted to know more and hunkered down. _Freaking dinosaur._ Admittedly, it isn’t like any dinosaur she’s read about, but it’s the closest thing for comparison, and still she hadn’t stuck around to study it closer because it had smelled her and began to head to where she was hiding. A new roar halts any and all activity in the forest once more, but it’s coming from further away this time and Leira refocuses on the snare and the surrounding area.

…

Glancing over at his brother, Sam can see that something has shifted. It’s not the fact that they’ve been talking and working together again, nor that Dean is handing the angel a beer which in the world of hunters is the same as a pat on the back. As they sit down, they all wince or groan slightly from the pain and exhaustion that’s wreaking their bodies, and the cold beer is soothing although bitter. _At least they might get back to normal._ He’s tired of being the middle man.

A deep sigh emanates from the other side of the table where Dean’s collapsed onto a chair. “What Ishim said...you're not weak, Cas. You know that, right?”

They both see that he doesn’t believe it. The poor guy has taken so many beatings and carries all the blame of the world according to the other angels…very few people have seen how much he really has sacrificed and what it has meant.

Frowning, Sam chimes in. _I know what you feel._ “I mean…obviously, you've changed, but it's all been for the better, man.”

“ _And_ you’ve been with us every step of this long, crazy thrill ride.” Dean’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes even if he does appreciate everything Castiel has done for them. “And no matter how crazy it got, you never backed down.”

Over the years, the angel has added several humane ticks to his repertoire of body language, one of them being a sort of wiggle that embodies a crumbling resistance.

“And that takes real strength.” Sam only has to say that last thing in order to get the point across.

_How long is it since we met Castiel the very first time?_ His best guesstimation lands him on eight years. Sure, they’ve not been on the best of terms all the time (if they’ve even been themselves at all) and there’ll probably be much more trouble to come that will have them disagreeing…but it doesn’t matter as long as they stick together. _Family don’t end in blood._ Even Chuck and Amara are figuring out how to be a family after ages of hatred and division. For a brief moment, the vision from the deities stands clear in Sam’s memory, tugging at a restless longing for a woman he has no clue when he will see again. That will be the day he has what is missing of the family back.

“– things like _cosmic consequences_ have a habit of biting us in the ass.” Dean’s gotten around to the real issue and is even managing to say it in a way that doesn’t sound sassy.

Previously, when this subject has been reintroduced, Cas has been just as stubborn as the big brother and there’s no doubt this time either that he cannot be persuaded to reconsider. “I know they do. But I don't regret what I did, even if it costs me my life.”

“Don't say that, man.” _This is the bane of our family,_ Sam feels the dread surge through him for a moment.

The angel and the short hunter meet each other’s gaze challengingly at first, but the fire fizzles out and especially Dean resigns to accepting the way of thought. How many times haven’t the brothers challenged faith? Done anything to save each other or anyone else they could – going as far as to kill Death himself. _That had been kinda epic._ Still…it’s a dangerous game to play.

Talking before the bottle is completely gone from his lips, Dean hasn’t taken his eyes of Cas. “So, what’re you gonna do if you find Kelly and…uh…Lucifer Junior? It _is_ a nephilim, right?”

“Oh, no.” The bit of happiness they’d been able to summon for Castiel disappears like dew under the sun. “It's more than that. An ordinary nephilim is one of the most dangerous beings in all of creation. But one that's fathered by an archangel? The Devil himself? I...I can't imagine the power.”

That that will be a problem eventually is not even a question and Sam doesn’t have a clue how they are supposed to handle it, but something else bothers him more, especially after this case with Lily Sunders. “But, Cas, at the end of the day…it's a mom and her kid.” He tries to sound kind, not wanting his friend feel worse than he already does about the concept of killing children in front of their mothers. “I mean, do you…d’you think you'll be able to...”

“There was a time when I wouldn't have hesitated. But now…I don't know.”

It scares Castiel, that much is obvious. Whatever he learned when he was a Warrior of Heaven never included doubt. Angels get orders, then they execute them with no regards to the effect it may have to others involved.

…

The sun is setting by the time Leira sees the owner of the snare. A lithe figure emerges from the soft dusk between the trees, walking silently with the spear held ready to end the life of anything that might have gotten caught. Whoever it is is dressed in leathers and furs, not unlike someone Leira would have imagined in a fantasy-world-setting where civilization still is developing, and people know how to take care of themselves by living off the land. When it becomes obvious that there’s nothing to come for, the person straightens up and pushes the fur trimmed hood back. Weathered, freckled skin on a young face is barely visible under a shock of reddish hair that looks like it hasn’t been washed for a long time, making Leira’s skull itch by the thought. Setting down the spear and a metal ring with the spoils from other traps, the hunter inspects the snare to ensure it’s still functional before plopping down on a stump to reconsider the options for a moment. _Male._ Inhaling silently, Leira fills her lungs with the scent of the forest, the dead critters, and the man below, sifting through the melange to easier identify him.

Both the woman in the tree and the man on the ground hear it at the same time – something has made a twig snap. From her vantage point, Leira sees the guy get into a defensive position, seemingly conjuring a bow and arrow from somewhere under the cape and readying for the first shot even before he’s fully standing. For a moment the world is holding its breath, stretching the seconds out and only snapping back into normal speed, like a rubber band, when another person steps into view and drops the hood, revealing a wild cushion of black curls crowning a serious female’s face. Back in the US, in the world Leira comes from, the newcomer wouldn’t be considered an adult. _16? Maybe 17 years old?_ It’s hard to judge in the growing dusk and either way age might have a different value here. Only a few words are exchanged between the two locals, none of them audible, but the meaning is clear as the guy collects his spoils and the duo begins to walk down the trail.

With soft flutters, Leira follows from tree to tree, praying silently that they won’t hear her or that the boughs she comes to rest on will hold her. She doesn’t want them to sense her presence because that would rob her of the biggest advantage of all. As long as these people aren’t aware of her existence the easier it will be to hunt without becoming the hunted, and as things are right now she doesn’t have to rush the next meal – the agent John Carver had helped her ensure that. Thinking of him, the memory of the bitter taste comes back, making her shudder in disgust. _I once craved that._ Not the bitterness itself, but she hadn’t known there was any difference until Nina had taught her a better way – and one that’s more fun for everyone involved.

“– _telling_ you something’s dif’rent!” The voice of the girl below has risen slightly, carrying the tense urgency into the tree crowns above the trail. “It’s been days, since my vision, but I can sense it.”

By her tone, Leira gets the impression that the feistiness stems from both the perceived danger as well as a personal pride that might have been injured by whatever this vision was about.

“Well, there’re no signs anywhere.” Attempting diplomacy, the guy rapidly adds something about not stopping the search because _obviously_ the vision must be true.

“ _Two_ women. _Not_ of this world. And somehow, they’ve managed t’ hide from _me_.”

_Yup, pride._ More importantly, it becomes clear to Leira as she listens in to the conversation that _she_ is one of those from the vision. Amara, of course, isn’t around anymore, having ditched the nephion with no clues on where to go or what to do, but apparently, she hasn’t been left completely defenseless…whether that’s a result of her nature or the goddess is hard to determine. What’s troubling is the existence of a psychic among these people, and Leira will have to watch out. _As if I don’t already._

What turns out to be the last bit of the way is passed in silence, and eventually Leira allows them to continue without her because they’ve led her to what she wanted: a small village tugged away neatly inside a roughly build palisade has appeared at the edge of the forest. A large fire at the center is illuminating the old-fashioned buildings with thatched roofs and low doors and tiny, glassless windows. All of the homes have small fires burning inside, some allowing the smoke to exit through chimneys, but most simply sporting a hole in the gable, and still the scents of roasting meat, fresh bread, and a variety of other foods is lingering in the cooling air before the wind blows it away towards the fields on the other side of the village.

Memorizing the place, Leira flashes back to her own hideout. It nothing like the snug village with the warm huts and cottages, instead it’s a hovel partially dug into the side of the hill and extended outwards with a messy tangle of branches and vines covered by anything available to keep the rain out. In front of it is a circle of narrow stones standing on end to hold a jagged slab of shale, all of it functioning as the firepit. It takes little effort to expose the smoldering coals and rekindle the fire, and soon Leira can sit with the darkness held at bay as the embers float towards the night sky.


	34. Distortet mirror images

Of all the cases they’d pick up on, it just had to be the one with the homicidal shapeshifter. _There’s got to be some that are peaceful._ Hunkering down to pass under the rusty pipes, Sam keeps an eye out for any sign of the target. He and Dean have been zeroing in on it the last couple of days and finally found these abandoned maintenance tunnels near the subway. Now and again, they hear the distant rumble of a train, but other than that there’s no sign of the city of Detroit above them.

“Over here.” Dean’s pointing his flashlight into a side tunnel further up.

Taking a place by his brother’s side, Sam can feel the heat radiating from him. The only warmth down here is what they generate.

“Looks like a dumping ground…” sweeping his own light across the concrete, the younger hunter takes in the rubber-like remains.

Some are still covered in goo, proving that they are from recent sheddings. Others are dried up or at least in the process of doing so. It’s dangerous footing with all the shifter-jello on the ground and it forces both men to pick their way carefully as they examine each disguise the monster has abandoned. _Killer. Not all creatures are monsters._ Cognac eyes set in an alert face peeks out from behind dark hair, and Sam feels the familiar sting at the memory. They’d thought she was a monster too and they didn’t want to believe that something as twisted as her could ever be good because in all their years of hunting, they’d only met a handful of friendly creatures. Vamps, werewolves, whatever. The few that had gotten a chance to prove themselves rarely got the chance to live in peace before something else came for them.

A hand lands on Sam’s shoulder, startling him. “Hey! You listening, Sammy?”

He can see the concern in his big brother’s eyes. “Yeah,” glancing around again, he hopes the mess at their feet is just from one shifter, “yeah, I’m good.”

“I need your head in the game, man…”

The rest is left unspoken, but there’s no reason to say it out loud because they’ve been over it before. It’s been weeks and there’s been no sign of Leira and Dean believes Sam’s in some sort of crisis because he’s taking it much lighter all of a sudden. _But how can I explain?_ He knows he should have said something about the vision right away, how Chuck or Amara had talked to him…but he can’t. Once Dean knew, he’d tell Castiel and then their mom and then all hell would be loose with theories and worries about what’s to come, what the holy siblings know about the future since they’ve sent the nephion off to god knows where. Truth be told, his little family wouldn’t get the long-needed break, and besides…Sam knows that Leira didn’t ditch them. _She’s gone, but not for good and she can handle herself._ That’s become a sort of mantra, a phrase he repeats to himself again and again throughout the day.

 _Head in the game._ “Let’s move.”

…

The villagers are celebrating something. Leira hasn’t quite figured out what, but it involves a grand feast by the big bonfire in the centre where tables have been dragged out and arranged in a semicircle with a mix of benches, chairs, and stools to accommodate the people.

Rather than following the hunters out today as she has done some of the previous days, Leira has been observing the routines of the inhabitants and it has provided a glimpse of the hierarchy. Everyone, except for those either too old or two young, has some daily task that benefits the community on top of their private chores. Kids tend to the livestock or help with lighter chores such as tending to the vegetable gardens; women and men alike share the harder work in the fields beyond the village or ensure that there is enough lumber for the many fires; and the elderly teach the new generation important life lessons, sometimes while gathering herbs and berries. It’s ensnaringly peaceful at a glance.

“Anything, Patience?”

The quiet voice of a man reaches Leira from below and she angles herself carefully to look through the foliage of her favourite spying tree. He’s tall and build in a way that gives proof to years of hard, physical labour and the ability to fight…something that’s partially responsible for the esteem he enjoys. _Must’ve been a looker when young._ In a way he still is with his salt-n-pepper hair, strong jaw, and deep voice. A warrior.

The psychic, Patience, answers while staring broodingly at an innocent fern. “No, not yet.” The nephion can’t see any of the locals’ eyes, but something tells her the plant ought to have withered under the gaze by now. “Perhaps they’ve moved on…but I’m not sure.”

“The palisade and gates are strong. Fighters and hunters are always ready.” There’s something familiar about the man’s stance and the way he picks at a large club he almost always carries with him. “Whatever they are…they’re not gonna find us unprepared if they decide come here.” _Good to know._

There’s been no signs of anyone with powers other than the girl, and that explains her status. Despite her young age and mediocre physical performance, she’s been elevated to the village council and throughout the day people come to her for verdicts or guidance in as well difficult as trivial matters. Playing a role of a mystic probably suits her, because whenever she is outside her cottage, the girl wears the same long, dark cloak almost like she’s trying to hide in plain sight.

“I know.” Seemingly disappointed with the fern’s lack of cooperation, she shifts the gaze to a kid who’s trying to herd a few stray chickens back inside the wooden walls. “But something’s shifted when they got here. Like the fabric between two worlds got torn.” A chocolate arm extends from the cloak. Fingers trace unseen patterns in the air. “The rift is still healing.”

Leira doesn’t mind as the two figures walk out of earshot, instead the words of Patience echoes in her head. _The rift is still healing,_ the thought rekindles a fragile hope, _that means it’s not fully closed…maybe I can get back!_ She still remembers the place where Amara had given her the wannabe quest.

All it takes is a thought. Luck is on her side because in her hurry to test the new theory the hybrid hasn’t checked if the place is deserted, but looking around, there’s nothing to sense. Listening carefully, it’s evident that the huge monster isn’t close either. The locals call it ‘the Big One’, which Leira finds pathetically simplified. _Now where was it exactly?_

…

Looking around at the haphazardly refurbished tunnel, both brothers come to a quiet agreement that this must be the shapeshifter’s hideout.

“Fit for a lifestyle mag, huh?” Dean chuckles as he tests the integrity of the home-build shelfing unit.

A few lose items topple off the shelves and either roll away or, in the case of a crude jar, smashes with a loud crack. A grey goo leaks onto the floor and pottery shards, realising a not unpleasant smell. _Juniper?_ Elsewhere are neatly folded stacks of clothes that turn out to be sorted according to gender first, and in a corner is a plastic cooler with canned unperishable food. In fact, the only thing missing is the shifter itself.

Scouring for any hints of where to search next, Sam shines his flashlight around and catches a gleam out of the corner of his eye. Repeating the maneuver, he pinpoints the source to something on top of the big sewage pipes running along the ceiling and sticks a hand up for it. He has to brush away a lazy spider and blow away a thick layer of dust before revealing a faded picture in a frame.

“Hey, Dean. Check this out.”

Hunkering over the image, they see the smiling face of an elderly woman. In the background are solitary trees dotted on a large lawn or field guarded by the high-rises even further away.

“Man. I really hope that’s its grandma!” Dean snatches the frame out his brother’s hands and pulls the image out from behind the glass, turning it over to look for any indicators on the subject. “Gotta be…’1921 to 2014’.”

It doesn’t make sense to Sam. This place is more like a storage facility for anything that might come in handy, not somewhere to keep anything of personal value. “Why keep it here?”

“So hunters like _you_ don’t stumble upon it!” Someone clarifies.

The words are accompanied by a hard blow to the back of the tall hunter’s head, making him see black dotted with bright sparks until his vision returns. While still in the dark, he hears an explosion of a gunshot echo through the narrow space, making his ears ring. Through watering eyes, he can see the shadows of Dean and the shifter (he assumes) going at it. _That thing is strong._ Taking blow after blow, it keeps advancing and pressing the bowlegged fighter down the tunnel without halting even a second to breathe or recover, and the grunts of pain are only coming from Dean. Sam’s legs are wobbly as he tries to get back on his feet. _Gun._ They’d both carried guns and he’s sure they must be somewhere nearby. _Bungee cords._ Shaking the thought out of the head, the man scans the floor for the weapons and spots the nearest on a grate about eight feet away and immediately lunges for it without caring that he lands hard on the metal grid.

The moment his fingers curl around the handle, he twists to take aim. “Dean!”

Hearing his brother’s yell, the other hunter drops and rolls out of the grasp of the monster and the bullet trajectory. Of course, the creature has been alerted too, but rather than taking cover it turns towards the voice and the split second before the bullet penetrates the skull it’s possible to see the mix of realization and regret in the wide-open eyes.

…

After hours of investigation, the only noteworthy thing the nephion has found is a nest of yellowjackets and a growing hopelessness. Perched on a half rotten tree stump, she looks towards the setting sun while contemplating the situation. A hundred years ago, she’d have welcomed this. It’d have been a new start far from anyone who might know of her existence and in a world that’s simpler, less interconnected which in turn results in a slower spread of rumours and warnings. She wouldn’t have had to live in the shadows. _Is this what I want then?_ The answer is already clear in her heart, which possibly freaks her out more than standing face to face with the Winchesters had. Winchesters. Like the yellowjackets, who are buzzing threateningly from the other side of the clearing, they are viciously protective of their family…a family Leira finds herself becoming a part of even if it had never been the plan. Not even Nina had been this close. Yes, home is not in this world and can’t be anymore, but how to get home then?

“The psychic.”

The hybrid’s voice startles a bird that has been trying to find a safe angle of attack on the delicious, but dangerous, wasps. It startles Leira too, although more because of the implications rather than the actual sound. The curly-haired girl had claimed that she could sense the fading portal through which Amara had entered with the unwilling travel companion, and if that’s true then _she_ might be the only one capable of identifying a passage back whether it’s the same or another one. Admitting the danger of the notion, Leira decides to study the local people in order to find a way of contacting them and the girl safely.

With trembling concentration, the foreigner transports herself back to the beloved tree. There’s little risk of being noticed now because the darkness is enveloping the forest, advancing towards the village where shadows are gripping onto the buildings and growing from the nooks and crannies.

Already, the inhabitants are crowding the open center with the large bonfire that’s blazing now, and the tables are decked in a simple yet inviting manner that reminds Leira of the dinners with her parents. _With Sam and Dean._ Neighbours are chatting away as trays are passed around with still sizzling deer and cooled vegetables that add a splash of colour even in the reddish glare of the flames. At the middle of the long crescent of tables are all the town elders with the gruff warrior from earlier and the psychic among them.

Wanting a better vantage point, Leira finds a deepening shadow behind a chimney on the cottage nearest the party and settles in flat against the roof. Only the top of her head is visible to those with the keenest eyes if they happened to look up there, but they are all busy having fun over dinner. _Fun._ Studying the faces and backs, the hybrid begins to re-evaluate that notion. The familiarity of the way the man is sitting is striking, mimicking the hunkering seated posture of the Winchester brothers when they are preparing for the something bad – he even has the same head-tilt and shrug as they do whenever they reach some sort of conclusion.

 _There we go._ Patience the village psychic stands up, creating a ripple of silence without the slightest effort until she can speak calmly with everyone still hearing her. From where Leira’s hidden, she can see the outline of the young girl’s face when the hood is pushed back and for a moment it’s as if she’s supressing a wicked smile, but it’s gone right away. _Maybe just a trick of the light?_

“Friends. Elders.” Passing a glance across the faces turned her way, the psychic’s eyes linger for a moment on her conversation partner from earlier that day. “This is supposed to be a time for celebration. A moment where we appreciate and equally share the fruits of our labour.” The young girl wields the pauses like weapons. “That’s why I’m sad to know that someone among us isn’t living up to the responsibilities, but is hoarding, yes… _stealing_ , to satisfy their greed.”

The hush is tangible, and for a moment it’s as if even the fire has been silenced by the freezing fear of the villagers who are sending crooked looks among each other and back at Patience. She just stands there. Silent, ominous, and waiting for the right moment to reveal what knowledge she possesses, but the moment never presents itself before a man gets up. Trembling and pale, he begins to apologize, to explain. If his friends listen then they don’t show, looking instead at the plates or at the table of the elders where the warrior gets to his feet, his eyes glinting with flames in the dark recesses under the bushy eyebrows.

_…_

From where Dean’s standing in the bar, he can just barely spot Sammy in the booth by the dark-painted window where he’s playing absentmindedly with a beer bottle. Of course, the giant of a man hadn’t wanted to come, preferring instead to hole up at the motel with his research and a few beers, and that’s the exact reason Dean had kept insisting. _Come on, bro…you can’t just sit around waiting._ The cute bartender pushes the tray over, careful not to spill any of the tequila from the small glasses when she adds a folded napkin to the load with a wink.

“Thanks, sweetheart.” The hunter can see the effect his smile has on her. _I’ll see you later._

Now, if only Sam would pick up on the similar looks he’s been getting. On the way back to the brother, Dean has to weave between the many people who are out to have fun, to forget the stress and worry from the week with boring work. The lives with the white picket fences and no clue about what is out there, going bump in the dark of the night and only kept at bay by people like himself.

The moment he places the black tray on the table, he knows it’ll be an uphill battle to get the little brother on board.

“Tequila? Really?” Shifting uneasily on the seat, Sammy picks the napkin out from between the glasses. “Making friends already, I see. Dibs on the motel.” They’ve got an unspoken rule not to keep numbers hostage in exchange for anything and the depressed giant does toss the token of a promise back and moves to get up. “I’ll get out of your way.”

“Sit your _ass_ down!” Dean’s tired. Tired of never catching a real break, of seeing his little brother so down, of not being able to fix things…but he’s got to try. “We need to talk.”

They rarely do serious talking, at least not outside the impala or the bunker, and Sam’s surprised. “Now?!”

“Yes, now.” His hair’s still a bit sticky from the gel when the fingers run through it. “Damnit, man! Don’t do this. I know you liked Leira, but you didn’t even know her for that long and it’s no good just…just shutting yourself away, okay?”

The brothers have had their fair share of fights over the years where they’ve driven and lived together basically non-stop, so Dean recognizes the coldness in the other man’s eyes at the challenge and he knows this can go either of two ways: Sam will either get up and walk out of there, claiming nothing’s wrong…or he’ll get pissed off and maybe even throw a punch or two which would hurt like a son of a bitch, but it would still be better than the damned silent indifference.

The voice is low and frighteningly calm. “You talk like she’s dead…”

“She might as well be! We’ve got no fucking clue where she is or if she’s coming back.” _Truth hurts, kid._ “And yeah it sucks, but you’ve gotta own up to it and get over her!”

“Like you did with Lisa?” It’s a low blow that leaves Dean gaping, giving Sam the opportunity to keep going. “Yeah, she’s gone. But I _know_ she’ll be back ‘cause it’s not of her own will. I _know_ that.” As the man stands, he towers high above the older hunter. “So no…I won’t screw the first girl who hands me a napkin with her number. I’m not gonna give up and nothing you can say will make me change my mind.”

Still reeling from the comment about Lisa, Dean’s having a hard time processing anything. Lisa had made him whole, and no one, _no one_ , is allowed to use her against him. His hand has clasped around Sam’s arm, partially working as a handle to pull himself up by, and they’re standing chest to chest before he realizes what he’s done, that this is going the wrong way.

“Don’t. Talk. ‘Bout Lisa.” Even saying her name hurts after all these years.

A big hand pries his fingers away, but it’s the whisper that makes them loosen the grip. “She’s _my_ Lisa.”

 _Fuck._ Dean had been certain Sammy and the nephion were fooling around and no matter how weird he found it, he’d decided to stay quiet and let them run off steam (Chuck knows it had improved the mood in the bunker), but this…this makes everything harder and there’s nothing he can say that can stop Sam from walking out of the bar.


	35. Exile til Death

Leira’s poised between the bushes to follow the warrior and the thief the moment the gate opens to let them out. One is carrying a backpack (probably with the few belongings hi has been allowed to take with him to start a new life somewhere), the other with a waterskin, his club, and a crude crossbow. The world is peaceful, still trying to shake off the sleepiness while the birds sing enthusiastically, but the moment Leira sees the thief it’s clear that he’s oblivious to it and is instead caught in a nightmare partially of his own making.

Last night, in the light of the dancing fire and below the thin layer of clouds to filter the light of the moon, Leira had seen the young man pale with fear. He’d confessed his sins, almost more by principle than necessity because no one doubted the words of Patience. The thief had begged for mercy. He’d cried, tried to explain that he hadn’t meant anything by it except to care for his frail grandmother. The moment the council rebutted by explaining that they were aware of the grandmother’s situation and that they had been ready to help…that was the moment the accused abandoned reason, trying instead to flee. He hadn’t gotten far. A single order from the warrior had send a couple of people moving and they tackled the wannabe fugitive. The verdict had been passed while he still was laying in the dust. Exile. The rest of the night he’d spent tied up in the pigsty, crying and pleading with anyone that got close enough.

“Please. Don’t do this.” The thief is glancing up at the taller warrior who’s got a strong hand wrapped tightly around the offender’s upper arm. “You’ve known me my entire _life_ , John. _Please!_ ”

_John._ Flashing to a new position ahead of the men as they walk along the path, she studies the warrior’s features more closely. _John._ The face is like a faint memory, distorted by time. His posture and movements are familiar because she’s seen them in the bodies of Sam and especially Dean. _John…Winchester?_

Flash by flash, she tracks the route of the men until they are near the clearing where Amara had left her behind. By the time the warrior lets go of the convict and lets him and the pack of necessities drop to the ground, the sun’s high in the sky with the promise of a few more summer days before the seasons change.

“This is it,” John swings his club lazily, “I won’t take you further.”

Leira’s crouching behind a patch of ferns as close as she can get to the pair while still hiding. Every word reaches her clearly, every gesture is easy to see…like the change in John’s grip on the club. The thief’s sitting flat on his ass, shaking at the prospect of having to fend for himself with no one to help him and he’s staring wide-eyed towards the horizon beyond the thinning trees, unaware of how the blunt weapon is lifted and then brought down hard. _Fucking hell._ Instead of going straight for the head, John lands blow after blow everywhere else on the body, breaking bones and dislocating limbs at a steady pace while he disregards the scream of fear and agony that makes birds take flight. _Why?_ But the skin is rupturing, allowing blood to flow from the injuries and fly from the club each time it whips through the air. Fat, red drops land on the bright green ferns. _Bitter with fear, but clean…velvety…_ Fangs descend with a painful throbbing and Leira’s throat is suddenly raspy and dry.

…

Led Zeppelin is futilely trying to patch over the silence in co-operation with the rumble of the engine. Sam and Dean have been in the impala for hours and in that time, they’ve uttered less than ten words. In total. Unfortunately, it’d be many hours before they’re back at the bunker and Sam can get away from his brother. _Maybe go for a run._

“Listen, man,” Dean’s shifting uneasily in the driver’s seat, “I get it, okay? What you said yesterday about…about Lisa…” shooting a quick glance over at Sam, he nods as if to underline what he’s just said, “I mean I don’t understand why, but apparently you really like her and yeah…then this all sucks.”

Sam hadn’t expected his brother to start this conversation, and he knows he should accept the olive branch Dean’s offering…but it’s not enough. _You don’t understand why?_ Hunters might not differentiate between skin colour or background (alright, some might, but most don’t)…anything not human, however, is treated with the same disdain, hatred, and mistrust that some white people treat people of colour or some Christians view homosexuals. It pisses Sam off, to say the least. He’s been just as blind once, thinking that all supernatural creatures are monsters because anything else was unthinkable. _I was wrong._

“ _What_ don’t you understand?” _Say it, damnit._

The vague hand gesture Dean makes results in nothing more than a stonewall of silence, forcing him to elaborate. “C’mon! I’m not blind, she’s hot and y’always have a thing for playing Doctor Phil on people if they’re hurting or shit so yeah, I saw you were digging her!” Now that he’s on a roll, the shorthaired man can’t be stopped. “But what the hell, ‘get some and move on’ I thought, because I thought you knew better than to get involved with someone like _her_.” His knuckles are turning white from his hard grip on the steering wheel.

“’Someone li–‘“ Sam has to bite his tongue to avoid screaming at his hypocrite, ignorant brother. “How is this different from you and Cas? He’s practically family! You’d do _anything_ to protect him! ‘Cause she’s _part_ demon?!” He can hear his thundering heartbeat in the head and all muscles are itching to fight. “Here’s a newsflash for _you_ , jerk…she’s part angel too and she’s been a fuckload better person than _we_ have! _You_ even trusted her enough to bring her on a _hunt_ , goddamnit!”

“I _trusted_ her to ensure her chances of survival. To do what she needed to do to get _us_ to trust _her._ ” Dean’s voice has risen too and is a viscous roar. “But look what happened, man! The _instant_ it got too much she ghosted on us.”

“She did _not…_ ”

A humourless laugh makes it clear what the older hunter thinks. “Bullshit! She bailed, and you know –”

“No. Amara _took_ her!” _There we go._ Forcing himself to talk calmly, Sam considers how he can avoid sounding insane. “I had a…vision or something not long after we got back to the bunker.”

“What?” Eyebrows are nearly disappearing into the hairline above, but at least the anger is dissipating. “What do you mean ‘Amara’? A ‘vision’?!”

Deep breaths steady Sam’s nerves a bit. “It was weird, okay? One moment I was getting prepped for heading out to our first hunt after getting out of that place…the next, Chuck and Amara  were the only thing I could really see, and they said…they told me Leira hadn’t wanted to go. That I shouldn’t worry, and I just knew…I _know_ she’ll come back.”

Keen, green eyes are studying Sam’s face and behind them, the older brother’s brain is analyzing each word and their implications. “They actually _said_ that?”

“Not all of it,” _at least he doesn’t question the vision itself,_ “most was just…like…I – like I suddenly _knew_. Look, whatever this is, it’s part of that plan they mentioned when they resurrected her.” Sam thrusts his fingers through his long hair to get the misplaced strands out of the face. “I can’t explain in what way. I don’t know _what_ they want from her or _us_ this time…just that…that this isn’t Leira’s choice.”

Sinking back against the smooth leather, the younger man retorts to staring out emptily at the landscape passing by. Flat farmland is interrupted by the occasional cluster of houses or forests. _Maybe she’s close right now and I just don’t know?_ But something tells Sam she’s not.

…

Sighing contentedly, Leira sits back on her heels and straighten her back. It doesn’t matter to her that half her face and her hands are sticky or that a red trickle is running from the chin and down towards her chest, even the bitter taste that lingers on the tongue is welcomed by the nephion right now.

The warrior, John, had stayed a long time, just looking at what he had done, walking around the crumbled body that was lying there, oozing blood which in turn was soaking the ground and the once bright green grass and the dried leaves from the year before. There had been no trace of regret or sorrow in his eyes. No lines of sadness around his lips. He was a man that supposedly was the protector of his people home in the village, but he didn’t flinch as he studied the corpse of a man that, although a criminal and outcast, was someone he’d considered a friend for years. There had been no order to kill the thief, the task had simply been to lead him away and then allow him to walk. Only if he returned would he suffer a worse fate. _Monster._ Killing in defense or even war made sense to Leira. But not this. And she stayed hidden, fighting her own monstrous urges until the warrior scoffed and walked away without ever once looking back.

Flies are already buzzing around the corpse and soon other scavengers will join them. Pushing to her feet, Leira can feel how her strength has been renewed and she’s about to leave when her eyes fall on the bundle of gear that the now victim had been allowed to bring. It’d be foolish to leave it behind when most of her own tools back in the hovel were clumsily made in haste to get the job of creating a safe shelter completed. The moment her hands close around the strap of the pack, she feels the first tremor of the giant beast and she knows she has to leave.

The freedom of travelling with nothing more than a thought is irreplaceable, and Leira utilizes it constantly without fear of being traced anymore. The only thing she has to worry about is what might be wherever she appears. This time a couple of wild goats run off, bleating with their tails pointing straight towards the sky in alarm at the sudden intruder and leaving the access to the cold water of the lake uncontested on this brink. The watering hole is relatively small as it is placed on a plateau in the mountains that overlook the wide plains and forests below. Here are no other plants than low shrubberies and tufts of grass interspersed by bright heathers, meaning no one can sneak up on the nephion as she sheds everything she wears and walks into the clear water. Beneath her feet, the stones have been rounded by the currents as the water sweeps out and hurtles towards the warmer climate a mile below.

At other times, she’s admired the view or studied the landscape to identify point of interest and to get her bearings in the strange, new world. Now she’s pondering the actions of this murderous warrior. If he really is this world’s version of John Winchester, then he’s nothing like the boys or Mary have mentioned the few times he’s been brought up in conversations… _but then almost nothing is alike when comparing the two worlds to each other._ Looking towards the sky through the frigid water, Leira realises what other implications the existence of the man holds: everyone might have a copy here, twisted or not, and that could include Leira too. The air is warm against her skin when she breaks through the surface, but she’s not paying attention to that as she’s already throwing her consciousness across the world in the hopes of finding a familiar presence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I've been able to post so rapidly, because I've already been posting on fanfiction.net for a while and I wanted to catch you up here. With this chapter, that has officially happened and posts will be once a week henceforth...I hope...if I have time to write.
> 
> Thank you for having come along this far, and please don't hold back on any comments or feedback as I'm still trying get better at both writing and the English language.


	36. Part of their world

Clasping the cellphone to his ear, Sam’s already mentally prepared for the serious voice peppered with statics:

“This is Dean Winchester’s voicemail. Leave your name, number, and nightmare after the tone and I’ll get back to you.”

The little brother’s finding it harder and harder to ignore the worry. _Damnit, man, where are you?_ It’s been hours since the hunter went out to get some food, and even if they don’t monitor each other it’s still not normal for Dean to ghost on anyone without a text as warning at the very least. _Not that it’s never happened before_ , Sam reminds himself as he sits down at the table again to continue the research, _so really there’s no reason to be alarmed_. The man can handle himself.

Five minutes later and he’s fiddling with the phone again, torn between calling Dean one more time or maybe mom…or Cas. All of them are out there somewhere, doing their own things and probably perfectly fine with the situation, working their cases, and the last thing they need is for him to bother them just because he’s worried or feeling sorry for himself. _Damnit._

…

For days, the nephion had been multitasking, attempting to ‘find herself’ and watch the villagers. She’d been disappointed when she realized that finding her double wasn’t as simple as she had hoped, but then again…when was it ever? Since Castiel had fiddled her brain and activated what she lovingly calls the angel-radar it’s been a lot easier to find people. Just not this time. At first, Leira had suspected that this world’s version of her might have been hard to trace like she herself is, but as time went on it didn’t seem to explain it unless their essences were that different.

Angry voices drift up through the roof to where Leira’s sitting, leaning against the chimney to better listen in on the council. Above her, she can see the occasional star peak through the clouds that chase each other across the sky with a promise of harder weather and the beginning of colder times.

John, the murderous warrior, is trying to reason with the psychic, using the safety of the villagers as an argument. “We _cannot_ keep sending people out to scour the world for these women –”

“ _No one_ has seen them in all this time, Patience.” It’s rare for the very oldest woman on the council, in fact in the entire village, to speak up unless she’s asked directly and for a moment the cottage below is quiet.

In all the time Leira has observed the life of the locals is this the first incident where the elders don’t agree with the young girl’s wishes, and even without seeing their faces it’s obvious how cross it must make her and how uncomfortable the rest are. With the exception of John, perhaps. That man is hewn of rock and nothing ever seems to faze him. Although he doesn’t lie, he has no qualms with bending the truth or keeping things to himself…even in the presence of Patience.

The sound of a crying baby from a nearby cottage distracts Leira momentarily, but the rest of the village is quiet with most people either in bed or on their way to.

“I may not have had more visions,” scathing fury saturates each word and the sound of hard footsteps hint at the psychic’s temper rising, “but that _doesn’t_ mean they _aren’t_ out there. These intruders might have powers unlike _any_ we are used to here…how else would they have entered our world?”

The low mumble that erupts is overruled by John before it can grow into more. “If they do have these…unrivaled powers, then we cannot expect to bump into them at random.” She begins to protest, but he doesn’t let her. “ _And_ even if we did, how should we be able to overpower them? Without the element of surprise, we’ll have no advantage. No, I stand by what I said…no more searches. If they come then let them, and if they are as powerful as you fear then let us rather sway them to our side.”

The goats and sheep bleat sleepily in their enclosure, scuffling about on the thinning layer of straws in a constant, slow shuffle to get furthest from the darkness beyond the protective barrier. Out there, danger still lies, they know that instinctively, even if most of it is kept out by the palisades. Only once in the period Leira has spied on the community has a sheep gone missing at night, and although the tracks were big it was clearly a feline such as a mountain lion that had opted for take-out.

“You all know what else is out there,” somehow, the young girl holds the attention of everyone present, including Leira, “not even the big one goes there, but if these outworlders do…if they join _them_ …”

…

Instead of having the phone lying next to him, Sam has had to place it in the bedside table’s drawer to avoid checking it constantly and it had worked really well. For 20 minutes. Maybe. Then he’d started to get up, sometimes making it all the way there before he realized what he was doing and then turning back to sit and read.

“This is ridiculous!”

Only the faint echo from the bathroom right next to Sam answers. Looking down at the phone in his hand, he has to face the truth because the big man knows exactly why he’s behaving this way. He doesn’t want to be alone again. Not yet. Not for long. And still somehow it feels like he is, and it awakes a numb desperation, starting deep down in the gut before it rises and starts to choke him, begins to fill his head with a blurry, slow panic. There is no clammy hands or accelerated heartbeat, just an endless darkness that doesn’t want to let go now that it has gotten a grip in him.

The hole left behind by Leira’s disappearance is minimized slightly by his knowledge of the circumstances surrounding it. She had not wanted to leave him, or anyone else, and although every memory is a painful reminder that can drag the breath out of his lungs, it’s almost the only thing that can console him. Sure, being around Dean 24-7 is not bad, except for being exposed to the snoring, bad eating habits, and the occasional stray, dirty sock or boxers. And it’s an uncomplicated sort of company with no requirements other than not being a dick. But most of all it’s because Dean understands. Having spend all that time isolated from the world, cut off from people...none of them wants that. _So why haven’t you texted?_

A million thoughts are chasing each other through his head, making it harder and harder for him to calm himself down and keep the solitude in the little motel room from coming crushing down onto him. Lungs are expanding and retracting rapidly now. The heart is no longer in his chest, but in the walls, making the throbbing beat attack him from all sides. _I have to get out._

…

Another roof. Another room below. _Funny how things stay the same the more they change._ The village council has finished the meeting more than an hour ago, each of the members going back to their own homes, without providing any of the answers Leira so desperately wants…and so the priorities are changing.

When she first arrived in this world, her greatest wish was to find a way back home, regardless of Amara’s words, and with the discovery of the psychic the reasoning behind the goddess’s words seemed apparent. Compatible, actually. Anyone with power could be of importance across worlds under the right circumstances, maybe, and would have to be investigated.

Rolling the neck, Leira can feel the vertebrae creek but the sound is lost in the rustle of wind and the murmur of the trees outside the safe perimeter. Inside the cottage the breathing has grown slow and heavy as evidence of the inhabitant sleeping, and outside it’s only the guard by the distant gate who’s awake. _Time to move._ Sliding soundlessly off the roof, the nephion lands with a near inaudible thud in the dust, crouching for a few seconds in the shadow to make sure no one has noticed before stretching to peek into the darkened room through the window. _Perfect._

Only the softest of flutters can be heard when she lands gingerly on a chair. It’s a home for a single man. One room with a minimum of furniture like the seat she’s perched on by the square table, a chest, a few shelves and other storage items pushed against the walls, and at the far end of the room is the bed where the red glare from the dying embers isn’t strong enough to reach, allowing deep shadows to reign instead. Holding her breath, Leira stares at the figure under the covers. Watches the shapes of his shoulder and side rise and fall slowly. _So peaceful._ Not like the image of him with the arm raised, blood trickling down from his club as he prepares another attack on the already lifeless body below. It’s tempting to leave this John a message. Something simple like a single word carved in the floor – murderer. But that’s not why Leira’s here and she pushes the stupid idea away, knowing full well that it would lead to nothing but problems for herself as well. _Breathe. Focus. Find his dream._

…

_The room is familiar, yet different, and she instinctively knows she’s in another house in the village…and still it all looks strangely…new. The large table in the middle of the room is nothing more than a few boards on trestles and no chairs are offering the dozen people places to sit._

_“They went too close –“_

_“Only Bobby made it back –“_

_“He saw what happened, but he’s too hurt…he may not wake up.”_

_Some of the speakers are villagers Leira can recognize, a few of them are on the council, and they are focused on a man right before her. John. It’s easy to see, even with the back to her and a stance that speaks of a younger man. It’s not just a dream, it’s a memory of days and events long gone._

_“Mary?” His voice is barely a whisper, strained as he fights to keep it calm._

_Castiel has taught her some of what she can do when invading another person’s dreams, and it allows her some calm that’s needed if she is to succeed in the endeavour. Sidestepping, the nephion knows that the dream-people won’t react to her, they won’t notice her, and neither will he unless she wants her to. Centered in the crowd, John is resting with the fists on the table, his head hanging low between the shoulder where muscles are working under the thin lined and skin, making the ropes of flesh along his arms ripple. It’s a much younger, shaven face Leira gets a view of, but also paler. Pale and distraught. All blood has been drained from it, except from where he’s has bitten through the lip, maybe in an effort to silence himself. From here she can also see the only object on the table: a large, crude map. Drawn in ink and coal, the shapes of the forest, rivers, and mountains are still recognizable._

_“She…I’m sorry, John.” The voice belongs to the only one that still looks exactly the same, the eldest. As always, her eyes are wise and soft with empathy. Sympathy, that Leira knows the man won’t always deserve._

_Looking back to the map, the nephion’s eyes fall on a note at the very edge._

…

The run had tired Sam enough to help him fall asleep, be it ever so lightly, so it takes a few seconds before he finds out what’s going on when the phone suddenly rings right next to his head on the pillow.

“Dude! Where the hell have you been?” _Finally!_

Dean’s voice has an edge to it, almost as if something freaked him out. “I’m not really sure ‘bout that…”

Not even a minute later, Sam’s staring at the phone with a vague idea of what his big brother might be, but no clue as to what has happened. Whatever the bowlegged hunter has been up to, it sounds like it requires something to get started on. _Better stop by a pharmacy on the way to Waldo’s._


	37. Father where art thou?

She had been tempted to flash straight from John’s home to the place with these unknown people, instead she played it safe and tried to prepare as well as she could by flitting in and out of the dreams of the villagers, twisting their dreams to make them reveal what they knew. It wasn’t much. Very few had ever been near the area where the strangers reigned, and the stories from the few encounters had the same unreliable quality as myths and fairy tales without enough similarities to give Leira any idea of what to expect.

After a few nights, when there were no more brains to pick, she went back to her hovel and erased any trace of her presence. Then the nephion took anything she wasn’t going to bring and hid it carefully between heavy rocks on the mountain side with the watering whole.

_It’s beautiful here._ Lingering on the stones, Leira’s looking out over the vast flatlands below where the jungle-like forest is spreading towards the paling horizon. The sun will break free of the hills soon, bringing out the golden and orange colours of the leaves that have started to wither between all the green. Turning the head to the left, she finds the edge of the trees. Down there, she knows, is the village and beyond it the small fields where they will be harvesting the last crops of the year, beyond that are the open plains. According to the map from John’s dream, that’s the way she will have to travel, across open terrain of marshland and steppes until nearing the mountains in the west. It’s a journey that would take a human many weeks.

As the world settles around Leira once more, she’s met with the sweet, rotten scent from the stagnant waters of the mire. Here and there are clusters of birch trees, shrubs, and the occasional blueberry plant where there’s slightly higher ground than the innumerable tussocks otherwise can provide. Shifting the spear (an inheritance after John’s victim) to the other hand, Leira pulls her feet free of the slippery ground, taking advantage of the thick roots from a nearby tree. Dawn hasn’t reached this far west yet, so mist is hanging low over the landscape unable to take flight and join the few clouds above. It would be easy to think the place truly is as grey and empty as it seems, but nothing would be farther from the truth because out here is a heaven for small birds and critters that thrive in the wetness. _Not an easy place for a human to live though._ Her dark eyes search towards the edge of the wetlands where the ground begins to rise and shape the foothills below the foreign mountains.

With a new force of will, the nephion brings herself to the last little grove on the border between marsh and gravelly ridge. More importantly, however, this is as far as the villagers have been willing to go according both to the map and the aging stories. Whatever is up there between the crags and protrusions is too dangerous for them and Patience can’t penetrate whatever wards the strangers have placed.

Leira can feel her wings shiver in anticipation as she begins to make her way up by sneaking from shadow to shadow at the bases of rocky formations. It’s slow work because the further she gets the less she can sense ahead of her. Instead it’s as if a thick mist is clouding the usual metaphorical glow of anything living, forcing her to rely on hearing, sight, and smell, and the restriction makes her stomach tighten in a knot.

…

For all of Rowena’s knowledge and experience with magic, there’s one thing she’s gotten wrong: Dean remembers. Not all of what happened while he was hexed is clear to him, but some things are. The things that really mattered. He remembers the fear of feeling his mind, the things that define him, slip away. He remembers Sammy’s desperation as the little brother scrambled to stop the spell and save one more from their tiny family from being lost. Even if the older hunter hadn’t understood what was going on all the time, he’d been deeply moved by the dedication. But the thing that really stuck with him? Rowena. The so-called story she had told in the motel room had been about her of course, and even with details missing, he knows that she regrets events in her past.

Flipping through the pages of the black grimoire, Dean considers if he ought to say something. It’s not like he or Sam consider her a friend, still she’s helped out quite a fair bit by now even if all it’s gotten her is trouble. _Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble._ Sure, she’s a witch. A scheming, overly dramatic, pompous witch…but the hunter has to concede that she’s changed since they first met her, and even it might not be to the point where he’ll call her ‘good’, it’s sure as hell not as close to ‘bad’ as it used to be. Fiery curls bounce in his imagination. The woman would never admit it, in fact Dean only knows because the tiny lady was sure he’d never remember, but she’s not the evil, self-serving hag she claims to be anymore. _Why shouldn’t Rowena deserve a second chance like all the others?_ Unless, of course, that that’s what the tiny witch want him to think. There’s no way of knowing that she wasn’t aware that he might remember some things and played that card expertly simply to gain a better standing with them and –

“Dean?” The strong voice echoes along the hard passage to reach him in the storage room, startling him back to reality. “Where’d you go?”

Dropping the book back into the inconspicuous-looking box, the older hunter puts the lid back on and leaves the room. “Right here, Sammy.”

They find each other at the corner leading towards the kitchen. _There it is._ Dean has noticed it more often since they got out of West Guantanamo, the worried wrinkles around his brother’s eyes and the pupils tiny with panic at the idea of losing someone. Again. But it’s gone in a second.

Scanning him from head to toe, Sam smiles awkwardly. “You okay, man?”

“I’ve told you,” it’s hard to stifle the sigh, “I’m fine. Just putting away your last notes on the manic magic family.”

Dean can’t really blame his little brother, but he wishes he’d stop fussing like that. What’s done is done and all he wants to do is move on, gank some monsters or get a lead on Rosemary’s baby. _Got a job to do,_ he can hear their dad’s voice, _no time to mope around now._

…

The first sign of civilization is a sigil etched into the splintering cliff. _Enochian._ Leira has seen this pattern on a wooden wall a long time ago and she remembers it’s purpose is to ward an area from being seen through magic of any kind. If there are more, then it’ll explain why Patience, the psychic, can’t receive any vision on whomever lives in these mountains. The nephion has made her way slowly towards the steeper slopes and it’s taken her hours to get this far, so now she has to deal with the sharp sun that has chased the mist away as well, making it even harder to remain unseen. More than once has she considered just flashing ahead instead of sneaking about like a human, like an animal, but seeing the angelic symbol, her decision to avoid using any sort of powers is verified. There’s no need to risk setting off a magical alarm, thereby announcing her own approach.

A few hundred meters later, a new sign is scorched into the ground to keep out windigos, she assumes it’s be one of many to create a perimeter. And there are other kinds. Each time Leira seeks shelter to plot out her course in the rugged terrain, she finds new wards and glyphs ensuring the safety of the makers from magic and monsters.

“What the –?”

Shutting up quickly, Leira looks around carefully for any sign that someone should’ve heard her. Nothing stirs, except for the straggling tufts of grass that have found a few inches of dirt to dig their roots into on the windy hill. As she reverts her attention to the linework in the stone, her fingertips follow the crack that has broken the sigil, noting how it doesn’t conform to the parallel planes in the crystalline structure. _Something or someone broke it._ A single blow has cracked the rock, creating one large line that travels diagonally across the pattern and extends deep into the hard material as well as several web-like lines that all meet up at the center of the anti-demon sigil. It must have been done on purpose, but by a demon or someone else? It feels to Leira as if her heart is trying to crawl out through her throat and her hands are sweating, making the grip on the spear slippery. A small, old part of her is yearning to turn around and leave these foothills to find somewhere she can live out her life in peace and solitude. _I’m no longer that girl._ The nephion hates to admit it, but those days are gone forever, and even if someone were to offer her a chance to go back to that time, she knows she wouldn’t take it. It’s not because of Amara’s claim that Leira has a purpose, a role to play. Neither is it because she’s been brought back to life by the divine siblings. Shaking her head, the woman refuses to accept the reason (the memory of Sam freaking Winchester that suddenly stands so clear to her) because she doesn’t want to be one of those kinds of people that Nina loved to ogle at in the soap operas on TV. _I’m a strong, independent woman that don’t need no man._

Mumbling, she shakes her head. “If only I could convince _myself_ of that.”

Pushing to her feet, she prepares to sprint to the next sheltering outcrop but is stopped by the feeling of cold, sharp steel against the neck. _Fuck!_ Only Leira’s eyes move as she scans the surroundings, spotting several figures now who are abandoning their hiding spots. All of them are dressed in a sort of armour that would fit a period re-enactment, except these leather and metal plates have seen real use that no buffing and polishing can remove.

“Who are you?” The man speaking behind her sounds familiar, like someone out of a dream and for reasons Leira can’t explain…it soothes her. “ _What_ are you?”

“It’s a long story, not easily explained…”

The nephion sees faces of strangers frown, but she’s paying attention to the soft glow within each of them and the things on their back. A gust of wind shuffles the dust and rigid blades of grass, lifting a faded and tattered feather to nestle at her feet. It came from behind her, and she instinctively knows it should have been the softest shade of pink, like the first summer’s rose or when the morning light lands on a fluffy cloud, full of luster and pearly shine.

The spear clatters as it lands on the gravel, pulling her guts along and leaving nothing but dread and fearful anticipation in their place as she turns to face the person behind her. Greying curls are held back from the serious face with the impossible hue that is a mix of olive and chocolate. It used to be radiant with a kind smile and his grace that would reach the amber of his eyes and make them sparkle with love. Eyes that look, or looked, exactly like Leira’s.

_Dad?_


	38. Identities

It hasn’t been nearly long enough, according to Sam, since they got back from the near-fatal hunt where Dean got hexed. Looking over at his brother by the steering wheel, it’s obvious that the guy is putting up a tough façade sprinkled with the excitement to see Cas and mom and feigned disinterest in _why_ the latter has asked them to come all this way.

“She didn’t say ‘nything else to you?” Not taking his eyes off the road, the older hunter asks.

“You got the text, dude.” Sometimes it hurts to be the different one of the three of them, but Sam’s happy his relationship with their mom is sturdier. Sometimes being too alike causes tension. “I guess we just have to wait and see.” The sit in silence for a few seconds, each considering the options. “And Cas didn’t say what it was?”

The angel had, as usual, been texting Dean on and off about the hunt for Kelly Kline, and so it had been a surprise when the walking trench coat had revealed that he was coming to the meeting too. _That’s_ what has cheered Dean up. The guy’s mood always improves immeasurable whenever their friend’s nearby, and there’s no denying it when they claim the angel’s family. Question is what sort of family. Leira had called them out on it, Dean and Cas, and she hadn’t been the first one to do so either as demons and angels alike had made assumptions about their relationship status… _and they never deny it._ Shooting his brother a side-glance, Sam recognizes the eagerness radiating from the short-haired hunter as the same kind he used to feel when he would get to see Leira again after spending time apart because of a hunt.

…

The nephion has walked for miles in a circle of silvery weapons pointed at her, and beyond the angel blades are the angels holding them, none of them saying a word. Their movements are skittish, uncertain what to make of Leira even as she does her best to comply with the few orders they give and to otherwise appear as unthreatening as possible…something that’s oddly challenging. The only mistake she has made is to ask where they’re taking her. A fading, yet throbbing, pain at the base of her skull and bound wrists remind her of that. She had allowed them to bind her even if she hates the chafing ropes. _At least they didn’t search me for more weapons._ The male that looks like her father had picked up the spear and handed it off to someone else.

A dull heartache has snuck into Leira’s chest, but she’s able to ignore it as she walks precariously in the silent formation. Being in the center gives the captive plenty of time to study the heavenly host, and what she see sets her at ease. When first she had felt the edge of the blade against her throat she’d wanted to flash out of there, to find somewhere safe to lie low, and the only reason she hadn’t was because it would put her in a bad position the next time she went to learn more about them. It was only as the walking dragged on that a new thought occurred to her: _They can’t fly._ Their wings too weak and their grace too dim, these angels don’t have the power it takes to cover distances by thought. In fact, looking at the nervous figures, it becomes evident that she might be much more powerful than them…and they know it. _What happened?_

Their wings aren’t broken like Castiel has told happened in the world she comes from when the angels were cast from heaven. His wings had been broken too but were restored when God and his sister made peace with each other, and he cherished the token of affection from his father, keeping the limbs well groomed to the point where they shimmer with health like her own. Watching the strangers, Leira sees their stolen glances at her appendages. She recognizes the range of emotions that make their faces scrunch up, their eye brows meet, and their mouths become thin lines. And whenever they look directly at her it’s only for a few seconds before they have to blink and look away as if blinded. _Why? What sort of monster am I to them?_

As the odd group follows a bend past nearly horizontal cliffs they come into a ravine that starts deep within the mountains. Leira can’t tell where exactly because tall stone walls are blocking the view and the enormous gates are shut. Similar to the ancient, roman ruins in Europe, this bastion is old and parts have crumbled under the unyielding forces of weather and time, but still it’s not enough to make it less impressive. The ground beneath the nephion’s feet is smoothing out, becoming a path and then a road that leads them to the imposing, wooden barriers that swing upon on soundless hinges when the group nears, allowing them to pass through several feet of cold stone.

 _So silent._ In her experience, garrisons are full of a special kind of life that comes with a lot of people in tight quarters. Even the best disciplined army creates noise when they are behind safe walls, but this place echoes with the footsteps of the group, and the courtyard they enter is desolate save for a few figures huddling by the stairs to a citadel.

“Watch it.” The familiar voice brings back memories.

 _It’s not my dad._ And still she recognizes his gait as he hurries up the stairs and disappears into the darkness beyond. _My dad wouldn’t call any sentient being an ‘it’._ No, her dad didn’t have the right to, because he had abandoned his sisters and brothers to be with a demon, he had seen more than just the monster or race and he had tried to pass that on to Leira-the-child. This angel, however, might have had a different life. For starters, he was actually alive here and now, although reduced to a shadow of what he should have been. All the angels are. Picking one at random to study, a female with strawberry-blond hair, it doesn’t take long before the tattered wings begin to tremble under the watchful gaze, making a few feathers give up the fragile grasp and float to the ground. They must have been golden and brown, but now they are hardly distinguishable from the dirt at the angel’s feet.

“– but then you decide to bring it _here_!?” The angry voice from within the citadel startles Leira.

Running footsteps accompany a new voice. “Wait till you _see_ it, _then_ you will understand.”

 _Their leader._ He’s wearing no armour over his simple clothes, so the only cues are the fact that he was called to assess her, the ridiculous number of shrivelled wings, and that his entire demeanour is that of a commander. In another life Leira might have found him handsome, and his hazel face and earth-dark eyes could have been kind…but in this life there’s been too many sorrows and losses to grants him such a disposition. As a soldier, as a leader of an army, the difficult decisions have taken their toll, and on top of that he, just like the other angels, is an emptying shell of what his kind is supposed to be, grace fading and wings molting. _Nearly humans._

It takes Leira less than a second to judge him, her face unfaltering. He on the other hand nearly misses a step at the sight of her, and like the others he moves to shield his eyes before he manages to stop himself, hiding the involuntary movement as a simple scratching of his black brows.

“I see…” a hand movement makes the sentries step back, leaving room for him to get closer, “I understand you decision, Tabbris…”

 _Tabbris._ Paying more attention to the named angel, Leira wishes she could feel any connection to the name. That it might bring back memories from when she was little, when her father read to her and her mother baked after having come home happy from an execution. But there’s nothing.

“You!” _Me._ “Do you understand? Can you _speak_?!” He’s practically yelling.

 _Wow, condescending much._ “Yes. And I can hear perfectly well, thank you.”

The entire world holds it’s breath, reminding Leira more than anything how dangerous the situation she’s in really is. Gaging the sound of the commander’s breathing, she knows he’s close to striking her, and when he comes to stand before her, close enough for their chests to brush against each other, she can see the malice mixing with curiosity.

“Don’t get sassy. By rights, you should’ve been dead by now.” She has to bow her head to hide the smirk, but he continues unaffected. “Why did you try to sneak into our lands?”

It hardly seems like a logical place to start to the nephion, and she figures it must be the result of his role as not just a commander, but the one responsible for the lives of his people, something she has never had to worry about. Glancing to the furthest corners, she sees more figures huddled in the deepening shadow, each marked by the faint glow of their grace. Counting them, she barely exceeds a score.

“Walking in unknown terrain and heading towards strangers who may or may not be hostile…it seemed like a prudent choice.”

“You really thought you could hide from us? Your grace shines like the sun in a cloudless sky!” There’s a bitterness to his voice that she didn’t expect to hear. “Who send you?”

What a powerplay it would be to tell an angel that his father and master (and his aunt) have send her to this world…but somehow, it doesn’t seem like the right choice. Acidic mistrust runs through Leira’s veins, making her itch to pull away or beat this new adversary down, because in her guts there’s no doubt that that’s what he is. Anything she will say, he’ll use against her to maintain the upper hand. He has to. Not just to solidify his power and stay in control of his troops, but because anything else will make him crumble, push him into an abyss of hopelessness. Locking eyes with him, Leira realizes it’s not malice but fear she sees flickering in the darkness.

 _I need him to feel in control._ “I’m alone, I’ve not been in this part of the world for long,” softening the voice, she establishes a role of the maiden in distress, “and when I learned of a people living in these mountains…I felt drawn…had to come…” Shaping her posture to signal insecurity for the first time, she knows she has to sell the show right.

“Why?”

“I…I don’t know…” Blowing a messy lock out of her face, it’s tempting to go all-in and add tears, but it’d be too big a change in behaviour. “I’ve been on my own for a long time, lived where ever I wanted,” catching his eyes, she holds his gaze to let him see the truth, “but now…if I could find a…a home. A family.”

The last words are only a whisper still it’s loud enough for all the angels surrounding them to hear and a soft murmur travels around the circle. _Banzai._ Not only do they seem to buy it, by the sound of it, they pity her and feel _with_ her. _Can’t they go back to Heaven?_ It would explain their fading grace. While many of the faces turn gentle, one remains hard and calculative for a heartbeat longer.

“Perhaps you can find it here with us.” For the first time, a smile makes the dark-skinned angel appear approachable. “My name is Michael. What may we call you?” The smile’s gone as soon as he has posed his question.

 _Holy fucking chihuahua!_ The plethora of appendages had hinted at a special status, true, still the nephion had not expected to be standing face to face with an archangel and least of all him. In her own world the last that was seen of him was when he got locked in the cage together with Lucifer, Sam, and the Winchesters’ half-brother Adam. According to devil himself, the first angel hadn’t taken well to the imprisonment.

“Michael…” _Get a grip, girl!_ “I knew I was in important company, still I’d never have dreamed to be this fortunate.” The ghost of a smirk curls Michael’s lips at her words. “My name is Leira.”


	39. Of love and war

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I've stared myself blind on this chapter trying to catch errors, so sorry if there are as many left as I fear.

Sam doesn’t know how or why, but things had gone sideways faster than any of them were ready for and now Wally is dead and Castiel’s dying on the floor of a barn. _We’ve gotta find a way._ Repeating the phrase over and over brings him no nearer to any meaningful answer. It’s not like their mom to walk into a trap. She’s too smart for that, too experienced, but the alternative options aren’t any better because it means she’s either accepted information without questioning it or looking for herself and then lied to them about it, or –

“Sam! _Sammy_!” Dean’s crouched next to Cas, frantically trying to make it more comfortable for the angel.

Hurrying over, a gut-turning stench hits the youngest hunter present in the face like a sledgehammer and he has to breathe through his mouth to keep his eyes from watering. Whatever was on that spear is spreading through the angel’s body rapidly, causing sweat to glisten on the bits of exposed skin.

“You _idiots_!” The exclamation makes all of them jump even though the voice is familiar. “You’re all going to _die_!”

Ignoring whatever crap his brother mumbles, Sam pushes to his feet, unfolding to his complete height and towering over the short demon. “Crowley?”

As more or less friendly words are exchanged, a feeling of understanding is awakened only to be crushed when the King of Hell reveals who they are up against. A Prince of Hell. One of several demons so old, they were turned by Lucifer and trained for one purpose: lead the unholy armies against Heaven, and apparently a couple millennia in retirement has made this Prince no less lethal…as seen from Castiel’s wound.

“It’s not a spear.” As per usual, the damned demon shrugs condescendingly when he knows more than they do. “It’s a lance…the Lance of Michael.”

Sam doesn’t want to believe what they hear. Just like Dean, he doesn’t want to give up on Cas…but unlike his older brother, he can see where this is going. _I have to keep it together._ Breathing in deeply, he wishes for Dean’s desperate cursing to no be too late.

…

Her hands are still bound as they pass the threshold to the keep. The sun is setting beyond the mountain, blanketing the stronghold in dusk that creeps out from the corners and along the stone walls, and inside the citadel it’s even darker. A few angels are scurrying about to light torches or tend to the braziers that are meant to add a bit of heat to the place. In the flickering light, Leira spots sigil upon sigil carved into the stones to strengthen the fortifications magically or keep intruders out, however any pertaining demons have been broken, leaving a kink in the armour that any attacking demonic host would be quick to find and exploit. It’s counterintuitive.

“I see you’re noticing our wards.” Michael smirks from his place at her right. “Do you know their meaning?”

“Of course. Enochian is not new to me.”

The leader stops to turn towards her. “Then why the scrutinizing stares?”

Had she tried to continue then she’d been skewered by several angel blades, still it’s his words that make her feel trapped. There’s something going on, some knowledge the nephion doesn’t have, that’s pushing Leira closer towards some yet unknown mistake. _Think. What are the differences?_ John Winchester is alive, but Mary is dead. There has been no evidence that Sam or Dean ever were born. Michael and a bunch of his kin are fading on earth. _But why?_ Why’s the archangel not trapped in a cage? Because Sam and Dean never locked him away with Lucifer in this world…because there were no brothers to stop Lucifer…o _h, Chuck…_

“I was simply wondering,” fighting to keep her voice level, she prays silently that her theory is right, “why bother to destroy the wards against demons even if they are unnecessary?”

In a world without Sam and Dean, the apocalypse would have been a reality that swept across the earth, Heaven, and Hell, until one side finally won, laying waste to the enemy and taking over control. At home, Castiel and the boys talked about it like it would be a war that would last eons, but perhaps here it had been different, and Michael could have let his armies to victory centuries ago. Every single demon would have been tracked down and destroyed. _My mom too._ At least it would explain why she had found no version of herself already living in this world.

“As you said…they were unnecessary, and we were celebrating.” He’s still wary of her, that much is clear from his stance. “I don’t remember your name among the enlisted. In the war?”

“It would not have been on any of your lists.” _Please, let my lying be worthy of an Oscar._ “I’d been given a different mission.”

He only answers by arching an eyebrow, willing her to continue by saying nothing. She knows the tactic and has used it many times herself, and while she looks back at him calmly, her brain is racing to prepare any answers that might become useful without being too precise to get her in trouble. One wrong name, and Michael will know that she’s attempting to deceive him. Refusing to answer a direct question, however, and the same will happen. _Damned if I do and damned if I don’t._

“Who gave you that…mission?” The slight pause confirms Leira’s suspicion that the archangel is far from convinced that she’s a friend.

She can only think of one person who’d be in a position to pass on orders without Michael knowing it. “Metatron.”

…

 _How could he even think we’d leave him? That Dean would leave him?_ Sam shoots a sideways glance at his brother who’s sitting there like always: one hand on the steering wheel and an elbow resting on the edge by the window. He’s brooding. Mulling over the shitstorm they’ve somehow managed to get through and, probably, how close he got to lose Castiel, because if it hadn’t been for Crowley the angel would’ve been dead by now.

“Why didn’t you tell him?”

The words jerk the big brother out of his thoughts. “Huh?”

“Castiel,” Sam tries to explain, “why didn’t you tell him what you feel? Dude! He could’ve died, and you’d never gotten to tell him!”

“Shut uuup…” It’s too dark in the car to see, but that’s the voice of someone rolling their eyes.

For a moment, the two brothers sit in silence as the dark pavement rolls away beneath the car.

 _Damnit!_ “You know what? _No_!” Twisting in the seat, Sam faces his brother. “I _won’t_ shut up and let your emotional constipation get in the way of something so fucking obvious and-and…and _good_!” For once, Dean doesn’t object, but lets the longhaired man continue the rant. “For _years_ you two’ve been buddying up and hinting things without daring to speak up. Man, I _know_ you! The only reason you haven’t tried to get into Cas’ pants is either because he’s an angel…or because you’ve only tried to play it straight and it freaks you out to go for your own team. Well guess what…suck it up!”

“Dude!” It’s hard to tell exactly what Dean’s objecting to.

“Not literally!” _Actually..._ “Or maybe, yeah, just go for it man.”

The impala makes an abrupt detour to the other side of the road and back. “ _DUDE!_ ”

“What?! I know you’re openminded, c’mon! We’ve been over that subject before.”

“But…it’s CAS, man! He’s a friend, not some…some…hook-up!” It’s clearly visible in the light of an oncoming car, that the green in the brother’s eyes is fully ringed by white as the idea gets processed. Brows are knitting, and the mouth is opening and closing like a fish’s on land. “People don’t just…not to friends!”

It’s an odd talk to have in a car, but that’s how it works for the two of them. The impala is a safe place and almost all the important talks they’ve had throughout their lives have been had in or at least near the black vehicle.

“Dean. He literally told you that he loves you.” Sam can see a new objection forming but manages to stop it. “It wasn’t just meant to the three of us, and no…it wasn’t only meant platonic. _Or_ as his family.”

…

Leira’s starting to regret ever namedropping Metatron, because the archangel is sharing stories about past experiences with the scribe as he leads her and a handful of the other angel along winding passages and down stairs. It’s hard for her to decide what’s worse, having to excuse for not having any detailed stories about Metatron or not knowing why they are going underground, but as they pass a corridor with what clearly are cells she makes a decision.

“I’m sorry, Michael, I mean no disrespect…” he acknowledges her interruption with a nod, and she continues despite the nervous humming down her spine, “but why are we in the dungeons?”

Bright teeth are bared in what could have been a disarming smile. “Ah, yes. That does of course seem odd, but you see…we keep, since during the war, a few odds and ends down here where the security is better.” Trailing after him, they begin to head down a new passage. “And there was one in particular, that I wanted to you to have a look at. Let’s see…”

Finally, he stops before a heavy, wooden door that only stubbornly swings open at his push. If it had been a prison cell, then it’s been refurbished to hold nothing but a desk instead of a cot. Entering before her, Michael motions for the guard to stay behind before he moves to light the only other torch waiting in its sconce over the table where only one thing seems to be lying under a rag.

“We recovered this during the war but were never able to verify its origin. Perhaps you can help us now…Leira?”

She moves haltingly when he beckons her over, fleetingly checking the dusty surfaces for anything that might become a problem for her. Still she isn’t expecting heavy, vertical bars to descend from the with a crash from the ceiling one by one in rapid succession and form a circle around her, effectively caging Leira and sending her heart into overdrive. Each time one of the metal rods plants itself in the floor, thin lines or scribbles wink in and out of existence. Not unlike the broader strokes crisscrossing at her feet, but those she recognizes. A devil’s trap heptagram. The panic is already rising within her, narrowing the nephion’s vision and pushing away the calm façade she’s been sustaining since the silver of the angel blade touched her neck. Every limb is pulled towards her body, minimizing the size of her as a potential target and serving to combat the tremors that are threatening to wreck her.


	40. A fly in the spider's web

Another trap, but on concrete flooring. A chair with manacles instead of an iron cage. Electric lights replacing the glow of the torch. Past and present get jumbled up in Leira’s mind and she can feel the bile bubble at the memories of pain and desolation.

“Thought you could fool us?” The jeer is the least hateful about Michael as he begins to pace around the tiny prison. “Where do I even _begin_ to explain where you went wrong? The sudden appearance out of nowhere? Thinking we couldn’t see that you’re no angel? Or maybe that you thought using Metatron’s name would be a benefit?”

He keeps circling her even though he falls silent, and eventually Leira has to find a spot on the wall to stare at to avoid getting dizzy. Then she waits. Starting small, the nephion reclaims control of her body, eventually managing to reach a point where she can talk without revealing her emotions. The interrogation can begin if that’s what Michael wants, but she doesn’t want to waste a moment while the commander of the heavenly host makes up his mind and so Leira turns the attention to the prison. _At least it’s big enough for me to spread my wings._

There are several parts to it, one obviously being the cage in itself, and the others being the trap on the ground and the small scribbles on the metal bars. Crouching, she studies the structure of the stone, how each slab is so perfectly lined up with the neighbouring that it’s nearly impossible to see the gaps in between. _Too hard to break by hand._ The heptagram will be difficult to breach as the time needed to scratch through the pattern is daunting. On the other hand, that discovery answers a simple question: previous prisoners didn’t leave this cell alive. _Why would they? They’d be demons._   
While studying the lower part of her new ‘home’, Leira’s been acutely aware of having all eyes on her, and she takes care not to react to it as she straightens up to continue the work. Sliding the fingertips across the metal of a bar makes the thin, glowing lines flare up where she touches. More importantly, though, it makes every single native angel react with surprise and nervousness, adding to the tension in the dungeon.

“Oh!” The full implication of what Michael would have been thinking hits Leira like a sledgehammer. “You think I’m a demon working some spell to _look_ like an angel? Or that I might even have _possessed_ one?” With Lucifer’s spawn potentially extinct after years of war there have probably never been created a nephion in this world. “Well dump a bucket of holy water on me then! Test it!”

She sees the unspoken order in his eyes as he looks to the flock of angels behind her, then the sound of running feet erupts and fades. Angry at herself, the situation, and the stubbornness of angels, Leira twists and pulls her wrists apart, effectively snapping the rope that has been chafing her skin. All eyes but hers follow the broken restrains on the way to the floor.

“Rest of you back to your posts,” the leader doesn’t need to yell to make it obvious how annoyed he is, “except you, Tabbris.”

 _Thank you, Michael…Mike._ The prisoner knows right away how much he would hate to be called by that nickname, so of course she promises herself to wait with using it for when she needs to rattle him, but for now she simply watch the two angels stick their heads together. They talk to quietly for her to make out more than the odd word here and there. Demon. Trick. Magic. Humans. Test.

Something Tabbris says makes the commander laugh dryly. “She’ll tell us the truth eventually, I’ll see to that myself.”

He doesn’t get to elaborate on his plan, because just then does a brown-winged angel return with a large pail. A strand of rosary beads are dangling over the edge, clicking against the wood of the container. Holy water. Standing calmly, she waits for the archangel to lift a cup full of clear liquid out and walk to the bars, careful not to touch them himself. Next instant, the cold is drenching the upper part of her clothes, dripping from her face and clinging to wild strands of black hair, and she sputters and blinks in weak protest before she can gaze calmly at the figure staring at her in confusion.

Tabbris turns to the one in charge. “Maybe an exorcism?” There’s a tremor to his voice.

“Exorcitamus te, omnis immundus spiritus,” Michael begins with fervor, urging Tabbris and the water-carrying angel to join, “omnis Satanica potestas…” 

Leira stops listening by then, because she knows this might only be the first of many incantations they will be reciting to make life difficult for whatever demon they think she is. Throughout her life, the nephion has learned to trust some of the illogical limitations of her hybrid blood such as the binding effect of a devil’s trap despite the lack of burn the holy water should provide. She knows, but the otherworlders don’t, that there is nothing to expel trapped inside her. The demonic sides aren’t a result of possession or incantations and so the exorcisms, regardless of the strength of them, doesn’t yield the expected results, and as the angels keep trying it only serves to frustrate them. Several times, they splash more water on Leira to enhance the chances, and each time it only makes her clothes more wet.

“What _are_ you?!” Most likely it’s only the metal rods that keep Michael from reaching in to strangle the woman. “I can feel the grace you hold, but how? Did you steal it?”

“No.” _Is that even possible?_ “The grace is mine and mine alone.”

“Where did you find your vessel?” Despite the change of subject, it isn’t likely to be something the angel is finished discussing.

“It’s not a vessel.”

The silence is deafening and combined with the various facial expressions of contempt and alarm it makes Leira worry if it would have been better to pretend.

…

Although the brothers are tired when they get home, they manage to both shower and even put together something resembling food…at least it can be eaten if accompanied with a cold one. Sitting at each their side of the table, they neither pay attention to much nor say anything. Sam’s resting the head in his hand as he swirls the bottle lazily in much the same way that his mind seems to be slugging around in an attempt to process the events of the night.

 _Something doesn’t add up._ Ramiel’s accusation of thievery has stuck with the younger hunter, and he isn’t as quick to dismiss it as Dean had been because even though this is a demon’s word against their own, it’s not just any demon but a Prince of Hell who had wanted to live quietly. _Making false accusations wouldn’t suit his wishes, so either Ramiel mistook the intrusion for a burglary or someone really had taken something._ The bottle stills momentarily in its wobbly path on the table. _It could have been Wally_ …but then why follow the rest of the hunters and Cas, when there had been time for the yellow-eyed bastard to retrieve whatever it was from Wally’s corpse? No, that didn’t make sense. Glancing over at the short brother, there’s no doubt in his heart that Dean can’t and won’t hide something like that from Sam…which leaves only the angel or the mother. The bottle’s dance is put on hold while the hunter takes a large gulp, allowing the refreshing bitterness to fill his mouth. Castiel wouldn’t pull a stunt like that anymore. _Mom?_ She’s new back in the world, still trying to find her place by helping out all the hunters she can, not to mention that she’s both smart enough never to do something like that, without clearing it with the rest, as well as being more than capable of weighing the risks to avoid harsh deprecations. _Demon’s can change their minds too._ That has to be the explanation, and for the moment almost all of him is willing to accept it if it will give him peace of mind.

“Hey!” Dean’s voice cuts through the jumble of thoughts. “You really think I should tell him?”

Sam tries to find a common denominator between what he has been thinking about and the sudden question but fails. “Huh, tell who what?”

“Cas, dumbass.”

“Yeah, no doubt.” He drains the bottle as he gets on his feet to clear out. “Better tell him before it’s too late.”


	41. Revelations

Leira has spend two days in the prison, whishing she could just fly away from the boring cage she’s trapped in. Things could be worse, obviously, considering that it’s dry and she has a daily visitor in Michael…and no one has dared lay a finger on her yet. The hours she’s had to while away alone in the darkness of the dungeon has been spent mainly on thinking (including some regretting) while trying to find the weakest point to break through the trap in the floor.

The sound of someone in the hall beyond the old, wooden door prompts Leira to tug the angel blade into the holster on the boot, and she has just managed to cover the fine grooves she’s made with dust when the latch is pushed aside. For whoever’s entering, it will look like she’s simply sitting, relaxing on the floor with the back against the metal bars.

 _Tabbris._ The curly-haired angel slips inside, leaving the door ajar, and hangs the torch he carries in a sconce nearby before turning to look at the prisoner.

“Two visits on the same day…wow!” Leira flashes him a smirk. “Something goin’ on?”

The way his brows furrow and his head’s inclined when Tabbris watches brings memories back of her father that she thought she’d forgotten. Suddenly, she can recall how he sat and studied every new human invention, attempting to understand why these creatures would work hard in producing and maintaining them in the hopes of reducing the labour slightly with some other menial task. Maybe both Tabbris’es are, or were, diligent theorists.

Minutes drag by, eventually running away with Leira’s patience. “So…Rit Ziens aren’t talkers, I take it?”

“How do you know I’m a Rit Zien?” Amber eyes dig into her. “I’ve not used my powers in your presence.”

“Please, you don’t have the juice to smite a bird or heal a blister.” It comes out as a scoff, and she regrets it the instant she notices the dejected look on his face. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what it must be like to…to _fade_ until you’re human.”

Tabbris might have wanted to contradict her, he even opens his mouth a few times, but eventually he just sighs and begins to pace the room slowly. “We’re not humans…”

“Not _yet_.”

“Michael will find a way.” Straightening his back, Tabbris looks like he believes it. “He’ll find a way home for us and we’ll…we’ll create new angels to fill the ranks once we’re there.”

Ignoring a dull heartache, Leira smiles tauntingly. “You’re gonna all go have a bunch of angel sex? Kinky!” Laughing at his flustered reaction, the nephion decides to push her luck by changing the topic. “Going home…shouldn’t be too hard unless you tossed away the key.”

The greyish curls bounce with each shake of his head. “…we have the key…” he sighs, “what we need…no! Why am I telling you this?” The sadness and moroseness dissipates, replaced instead by mistrust. “What are you doing to me?”

“I can’t do anything from in here. You know that.”

“Then why do I…this _compulsion_ to talk with you… _why_?!” His nails are digging into the palms, creating a dull pain that echoes in Leira’s hands.

She lets him calm down by pacing the frustration off.

…

Castiel has spoken with Dean several times over the cellular phone since the incident involving the Lance of Michael. Yet walking down the metal stairs of the bunker, the angel has to admit that he feels a certain trepidation, one that he cannot recall happening often in the thousands of years he has existed except in the presence of this particular hunter. It’s a peculiar sensation. A blend between the excitement of being a step away from completion and a honeyed craving for something unknown. The unfamiliar perception used to be unsettling, and it made Cas pull back in the hopes that it would pass, but it only turned into loss. Without understanding how, the angel had to accept that Dean had left a mark on his soul that could not be erased easily. Since then, he’s been trying to help as best he can.

Judging by the sounds and smells, Cas excludes the possibility that either of the brothers are in the kitchen, so he heads through the quaint library and down the corridor towards the oldest hunter’s room. The trench coat-clad being has walked these floors before, so he knows them well enough to consider them a refuge almost worthy to be a home. Almost. Nothing will ever quite be able to replace Heaven, and even thinking of it creates a knot in the angel’s chest. What he wouldn’t give to go back. And still he refuses to give up Dean and the group of brave people here on earth who time and time again have been willing to sacrifice themselves to save the world. _They_ are his family now. He loves them. He loves… _What more’s there to say?_ Dean has nearly been begging for Cas to come, claiming that it’s important they get to talk about what happened in the barn, the night they encountered Ramiel. _Talk about “the revelation” he’s had…but which?_ Human logic and emotions are not always easy to follow for the angel and that’s even after years spend among the race and a (compared to his lifespan) brief period of actually being human. Castiel has concluded that humans live more fully, more intensely. Perhaps to make up for the brevity.

Rounding a corner, the angel barely avoids bumping into Sam who’s coming the other way, shocking Cas out of the confusing array of thoughts. The hunter looks startled for a moment, but of course that may just be from coming face to face with each other in such a manner.

“I uhh…I’m sorry, Sam.” Cas looks the tall man over, wondering what to say. “Dean…he said I had to come?”

A broad smile makes a rare appearance, creating a nearly childish look on the grown man. “Finally! He’s in his room, bud.”

Walking past, the hunter rewards Cas with a hand on the shoulder and a squeeze, not unlike the way humans tend to do when encouraging someone…. _or is it when they are proud of the person?_ Either way, it isn’t meant negatively, and the angel continues.

…

Since Tabbris left, Leira’s been working relentlessly on breaking the seal and she’s finally succeeded in making a groove thick and long enough through one of the circles to do the trick. She slips the angel blade back in the holster after dusting it off, then flexes the tired hands and arms before getting to her feet. Even with a tool that can’t be dulled it’s been hard work. _It’s not over yet._ The devil’s trap on the floor might be useless now, but the iron bars are still there, and a tentative attempt at flashing out of the cage proves unsuccessful, unless the aim is to make the scribbles glow. Looking closer at the fine patterns, she recognizes glyphs and sigils that are repeated on every single bar. Some are harmless, meant for other creatures, but many serve to keep demons trapped and it probably won’t be enough to break one of them to ensure her escape. _How do I break them?_ Taking hold of a metal rod, she can feel the energy from the magic hum in her hand and she leans closer to inspect the next project.

That’s how they find her: nose nearly touching the metal and eyes squinting to see how deep the seals are imbedded, and there’s no need for Leira to pretend that she wouldn’t try to get out as long as she doesn’t let them find out about the progress she’s already made.

“The craftmanship is impeccable, I assure you,” Michael’s drawl echoes faintly off the stone walls and ceiling, “it cannot be easily broken.”

The nephion takes care not to worthy him a glance. “Lovely. I _do_ love a challenge.”

“I would expect no less from a monster such as you.” The heavy door swings shut behind the archangel.

“And what am I?”

Truth be told, she’s not paying much attention to her investigation although her position remains the same. Instead, Leira’s watching covertly as the captor walks from one wall to the other to paint new devil’s traps onto the stones with a thick, red liquid. _Blood._ The scent makes her nostrils flare and fangs throb, and she’s thankful for having fed less than a week ago or it would have been harder to hide the effect it has on her.

“Theoretically? The term might be nephalem.” If his voice could affect the temperature in the room, then it would have dropped well below zero. “An abomination that cannot exist. A hybrid between…” he pauses for dramatic flair, “a demon and an angel.”

Considering Michael’s wording carefully, the so-called abomination searches for a kink in his logic. “And practically?”

“What do you mean?” He comes to stand before her, a few feet away from the barrier between them, and she’s about to answer when he seems to get it. “One thing’s theory another’s fact? Yes…no angel would ever sink so low as to procreate with a demon.” Stepping closer, he stares into her eyes. “Like a cambion, you have demonic blood in your veins otherwise you’d not have triggered the prison…but the wings and grace…yes…that _is_ not easy to account for…more so as angels cannot conceive and the offspring of those in male vessels does not develop such as you must have. Assuming you were born and not created.”

“Sculpted from clay? That sort of creation? Fascinating theories,” she heckles quietly, “I particularly like the one about angels not being able to make little baby angels.” A faint, cold glow fills Michael’s eyes and there’s a slight twitch of his upper lip that would have developed into a growl if he’d been a dog. As it is, he stays quiet. “Oh…you’ve actually tried? How are angels made if not by someone as powerful as God?”

The corner of his lips curl and he lowers his head closer to the nephion’s level to ensure he has her full attention through the bars. “That’s the question, isn’t it? And you will help me find out.”

“Oh, I will?” _Why would I help my incarcerator?_

Every fiber of her being is rejecting the idea of making anything easier for the archangel in retaliation of having lost her freedom. One day she’ll get out and leave the place behind and he won’t be able to find her, but Leira won’t let him break her before then or any day after. She’ll tell him nothing more. She’ll fight if needed.

“You don’t have to volunteer.”

The meaning’s clear, and if it hadn’t been then that would have changed as the commander of the angels calls in what can only be described as reinforcements: Tabbris and two other male angels join them in the room, the former staying by the door while the new representatives of celestial brawn position themselves as a veritable meat wall in front of Michael. Their proportions are impressive and at least humans or trapped demons would have found them intimidating. However, Leira has a card of the sleeve thanks to the changes she has made in the prison. As long as the cage is closed, she’s fairly safe from any threat coming from the outside. The moment the bars will be pulled back, the trap will be broken, and she will have regained her freedom. All it will take is a thought.

On Michael’s signal Tabbris activates a mechanism out of the nephion’s line of sight and a third of the cage is pulled up into the ceiling. The woman isn’t looking at them. Her eyes are fixed on the archangel, a crooked smile rekindling the light of defiance in them, and she keeps the eye contact even as the thick metal rods are out of the way, allowing the enforcers to start the slow and heavy charge at her. One thought. _A watering hole on a mountain overlooking a green valley._ Leira’s ready for the infinitesimal timespan it takes for the scenery around her to be replaced with that of the destination…but nothing happens, except the impact of the much heavier males against her. Slamming her backwards against the unforgiving bars, all wind is knocked out of her lungs, and before there’s time for her to recover, the brutes each grab an arm. They’re quick, working with an efficiency that only training can have given them. By the time the nephion sucks in the first breath, she finds her wrists in cuffs, each attached to the cage with enough distance that it will be impossible for her to scratch her nose. _No…nononono!_ Focusing on the dark restraint on the right, the old markings are still visible. _Trap angels._ She already knows what to expect of the other, but she still can’t help but look. _Trap demons._

“You see, abomination,” the commander cajoles as he watches the angelic oafs step back and leave the room without a word, “it’s not enough to break the seal on the floor and then wait for the cage to open. The magic’s in the runes.” Momentarily, each fine line of the sigils flares up and when the light’s extinguished Michael enters the restrictive circle. “Try to fly, little bird. Even now, with the seals powered down, you can’t. You…are…mine.”

He’s too close for comfort, chest brushing against chest and his breath rolling over her face even when Leira turns away as best as she can. Calloused fingers trail her jaw softly for a second, but the tenderness flees when he grabs her chin hard and forces her to face him. Fiery honey and the deepest brown battle silently for dominance. _You won’t break me._ The spit hits him on the bridge of his nose, spraying lightly over eyes and cheeks and startling him as if no one ever has defied him before in such a way. Using his free hand, the angel wipes away every last drop of spittle without showing the slightest sign of emotion, the fingers around Leira’s chin never changing the pressure even as he leans in.

“The more you resist,” he whispers, each movement of his lips brushing against her ear, “the more fun I’ll have.”


	42. Nightmares

To say that things have been crazy for the Winchester brothers would be the understatement of the century, and that’s even when taking into consideration all the messed-up situations they’ve been in. At least Dean has been happy for a while. Glancing through the drops on the impala’s windshield, he watches Sam inside the burger joint in a line that’s moving at an excruciatingly slow pace, and he has to remind himself to relax. _Crap, crap, crap!_ Counting down and breathing slowly only helps stem the tide for a while, and each day since mom, no, since Mary dropped the bomb on them, it feels like he’s been about ready to explode himself from all the pent-up frustrations, _and why the fuck not?_ It had been a hell of a surprise to find out she was working for the Brits, and that they had been responsible for the case where Castiel got gored and almost died. _Cas isn’t allowed to die. Never._ Sammy had tried to Dr. Phil it the first while, but recently he’s been more withdrawn. At the register, the little brother’s being handed the greasy paper bag to a silent exchange of thank-yous and here-you-goes, neither of the participants managing more than a tired, forced smile. It’s a look the older brother is familiar with. _What aren’t you saying, buddy?_

The fragrance of Heaven itself spreads in the car the moment Sammy gets in with the haul, dumping the bag unceremoniously on the seat.

“Dude, take care of my fries.” Dean would have loved if his little brother had learned to love good junk food too. “Did you get the –“

“Yeah. I got your pie.”

Although it’s tempting to check, the older hunter decides to risk it and backs out of the parking spot to turn the nose homewards. On the way, they sit in silence each wrestling with everything that’s going on…or so Dean thinks until the soft (for the time being) snoring can be heard from the passenger seat.

…

Leira props her sore body up against the prison bars, thanking the lucky star that physical surroundings doesn’t bother her as much as they would a human, otherwise she’d have gotten hypothermia now that her clothes are reduced to shreds barely capable of covering the body. Inhuman powers or not, the movement still makes her grimace as the broken ribs sends jolts of pain through the chest.

“It’s not unlike creating a work of art,” Michael ponders, “the multitude of colours blending on the canvas to bring attention to the most delicate features.”

His fingers trace the edge of the massively swollen left eye and cheek of the nephion, but she refuses to budge, to pull away from his touch. The archangel is personally seeing to the task of breaking her and rarely allows anyone else to be present, save for Tabbris who has the role of observer and monitors the health of the prisoner...no warnings have been given, though, because his superior knows exactly how to use the blunt instruments he’s been favouring without risking Leira’s life.

If it wasn’t for the sigils on cuffs and bars, then she’d have healed herself just to piss Michael off. “Soft palette,” she coughs, a few drops of blood running from the corner of her mouth, “fits you.”

The large fist stops an inch from her face before the man steps back to a crude table by the wall. “Perhaps you’re right.” His eyes wander up and down the length of her. “A…splash of crimson could do wonders.”

 _Here we go._ For the first time, Michael picks up a golden, twisted blade, spinning it on a flat palm and stopping it when he stands before her again by snapping the fingers tightly around the hilt. The first gash is superficial, resulting in nothing more than a thin line across the prisoner’s abdomen with pinprick-sized crimson beads of blood. The second time the archangel lashes out he slashes deep into the right upper arm, and Leira knows that injury will accelerate her need to feed again. The third time he strikes, she feels the tip drag through flesh and scraping over bones from the waist to mid-thigh, effectively ruining any chance of standing properly until it’s healed, not to mention that the trousers are beyond repair. Blinding, white light radiates from the wound, forcing the two males to blink (Leira doesn’t have to because that’s the side where her eye is swollen shut).

“Tabbris...fetch clean water and cloths.”

The Rit Zien disappears without a word, leaving Michael to stare at the woman who is trying to regain balance on one leg. The dirty jeans are held up by a hip and the tightness around the undamaged leg, meaning that the only shield for her private parts is the lose shirt. A foreign anxiety takes hold in Leira’s lungs, then creeps to her brain where it registers for what it is. _Not that. God, no._ The tip of the blade grazes her skin lightly in a horizontal path from hipbone to hipbone.

“Our females are barren…yet you were born. Part angel. Part…demon.” Fanatism is burning in the archangel’s eyes while he mumbles to himself. “The demonic heritage can be diluted over time, perhaps.”

Fighting to stay calm, Leira breathes slowly through the nose despite the dried blood partially clogging it. “That’s gonna be your excuse to get in my pants?” The soft cackle doesn’t sound forced because it’s easy to resent him. “Fancy some demon action?”

Next instant, her right hand carries the first stigmata and it’s hard to remember why it seemed like a good idea to say what she did.

…

Sam blinks bleary-eyed at the surroundings in an attempt to get rid of the images from the recurring nightmare that’s waken him brutally. The sight of the brightly lit room is comforting. The hunter’s lying on the bed with a book open on his chest, stacks of papers and articles arranged around him, and the laptop at his side to facilitate the research he’s been doing on archangels and nephilim. Research meant to keep him awake, because almost every time he falls asleep some horrible scenario full of pain and fear engulfs him in its haze. He hates it. The horror and agony would be bad enough on its own, but everything’s happening behind a shifting, translucent curtain, its movement making him queasy and the lack of clarity making him nervous. _What is going on?_ Of course, Sam has a theory. Problem is it’s one he doesn’t like at all and he’d give a lot for it to be proven wrong, which might seem like a simple job when nothing in the nightmare is clearly visible. But the sounds are unmistakable, and he’d recognise the female voice anywhere.

Reaching out, the man grabs a single feather the size of a swan’s, turning it over slowly to see the way the light shimmers on the dark blue. Maybe Sam should get rid of it to avoid the stab of pain he feels each time he sees it. After all, Leira might never come back again from wherever she’s gone to. At least he hasn’t heard anything from her, Chuck, or Amara. _Unless the dreams– no, I won’t go there._

He moves the book away and swings the legs over the edge of the bed, revelling the relief as the sock-covered feet touch the cold floor. Checking the cellphone, Sam isn’t surprised to see the text from their mom telling him when she’ll pick him up and bring him to the British Men of Letter’s headquarters.

…

The feeling runs to the very tips of his wings. The urgency. The mercurial instinct that Castiel’s closing in on the mother-to-be of the nephilim. She’s under powerful protection which means it’s been impossible for him to locate her the way an angel or demon can, in turn forcing him to carry out an investigation in a manner closer to how humans do. Dean and Sam, at least. The angel sends a thankful prayer to his friends for teaching him everything on the matter and for, once upon a time, providing him with a badge claiming an affiliation with the FBI. The humans he shows it to respect that badge, and it grants him access to these so-called video recordings of specific areas. The one he’s looking at now is from a wastewater treatment plant, and although the quality of the image is grainy, he still recognises one of the two women exiting the motel across the street. _Kelly Kline._

He has promised to find her, and Cas decided eons ago that he wouldn’t be the kind of being to break a vow, however trivial it may appear. More importantly, the promise has been made to Dean. _I cannot let him down. Not again._ The angel knows how much his human and Sam have gone through to save the world on innumerable occasions. Sighing deeply, Castiel prepares to head into night, searching for any cameras that might have captured the image of the women. The second female’s the vessel of a demon, this he knows for sure, and the evil creature might be a Prince of Hell if anything Ramiel said can be trusted. Dagon. During the confrontation in the barn, the solitary, yellow-eyed adversary had divulged that she had taken an interest in Lucifer’s spawn. Rewinding the recording slightly, Cas waits for the right second before pausing it. _Yes._ A flash of yellow proves that it’s her instead of an underling acting on her behalf.

The sound of the office chair’s stuck wheel dragging over the uneven floor makes the hairs on Castiel’s arms stand up (a human reaction to marvel at) and he takes care to lift the chair as he replaces it close to the desk with the supposedly ancient AV equipment before grabbing the cassette. On the way out, he makes sure to nod to the employee that helped him.

The wind’s cool and clammy against his cheeks, making the worn trench coat flap around his thighs and the tie flutter over his shoulder. He doesn’t mind the weather or the night, because he’s never had to fear it. What he does mind is the Sisyphus-task of tracking Kelly Kline and her protector. _If Dagon gets her hands on the child and secures its birth…_ the thought alone makes him shudder. As the spawn of Lucifer, it will be inherently evil. How could it not? But evil can be nursed and perfected, and that’s the last thing anyone would want if they care the least bit about the world and every living soul thereupon. So yes, he follows the path indicated on the footage, constantly on guard as he searches for new clues or other cameras that may have caught a glimpse of the odd pair.


	43. The Samaritan

Most people are familiar with the feeling of stopping up in the middle of an activity and realizing how time has passed differently than they perceived. It can be the staggering eternity left of work when they thought it surely had to be lunch already, or maybe that their little children somehow have become adults within a year or two (though it truly has been decades). Time’s relative. For Leira and any of her kin, both angelic and demonic, the months and years flow together until hundreds and thousands of years have passed in the blink of an eye.

 _How long’s it been?_ In this dungeon, the only indication of time is the change of the torch, the all too frequent visits from Michael, and the growing need to feed. Leira’s slumped on the floor, leaning against the bars with the mangled wings draped around her naked and broken body. If only she could heal. Bruises (both old and new) and wounds are littering her skin, and the heavy cuffs are cutting into her flesh every time she moves, adding to the trickle of blood and puss. Every time Michael arrives, he forces her to turn around, making her arms cross tightly in front of her because he doesn’t unlock the restraints. It’s a logical choice as the position hampers the nephion’s movements and therefore her ability to fight back as he takes her by force. The memories make her shudder on the cold floor. _“You will help me save my people”_ , the archangel’s words echo in the brain hidden underneath the matted mess of black hair. It’s the excuse he grunts each time he defiles her, as if saying it can justify his actions. In return, Leira bites in the pain, staying silent except for swearing upon all she holds dear that she will get her revenge, that she will get free and make him suffer some day. Some day soon. _Please._

…

The interior of the cottage is a mess. Looking around, Sam takes in the evidence of the fight in the form of broken furniture and splintered household items. Mick Davies is nursing his side which took a blow, but even so he doesn’t take the eyes off the dead werewolf on the floor for long, the only time he glances away is to assure himself that Dean’s not budging from his spot by Claire’s side.

 _Please, Chuck. Please, at least let this work out right…she doesn’t– T_ he tall hunter can’t finish his own thoughts, too scared that even thinking it might bring more bad luck raining down on them instead of the break they so desperately need. But Claire keeps groaning and convulsing with the pain of the experimental antidote that’s burning through her. Reminding himself that she chose this does little to ease Sam’s conscience, just like knowing he would’ve made the same choice if the situation had been reversed, because in the end this might kill her. _I can’t lose another._ Not for the first time, he finds himself in a nightmarish scenario where he can do nothing but watch. But this isn’t a nightmare, it’s real and very different from the hellish scenes that play for him each time Sam falls asleep.

…

The heavy creaking of the door drives Leira’s mind back to her body and prison. _Not again._ All of her is aching from the torturous conduct she’s been subjected to plus a gnawing hunger, and she knows that the manic self-discipline’s wavering. The nephion will soon be unable to hide her fangs, fear, or tears. Tilting her head backwards, she glares at the person entering the room from behind the shield of messy hair and metal bars. _Thank you, Amara._ It’s not Michael.

“Did I wake you?” Tabbris asks sheepishly as he places a bucket with steaming water and a pile of cloths on the floor.

“Why would you care?” The talking re-opens her split lip, allowing fresh blood to well and she licks it up with a dart of her tongue in the hopes that it’ll wet her throat.

As expected, the fading angel doesn’t answer but busies himself with raising a section of the cage to gain entry, armed with a silver blade in one hand and the bucket and cloths in the other, placing each within his reach but not hers. This isn’t the first time Tabbris has come to her like this. Haunching before the female, he begins to clean her meticulously in much the same way a nurse would clean a patient. Legs first until mid-thighs, then he switches to the arms, biting his lips as he studies the raw rings around her wrists, knowing full well what an infection can bring. Each time he comes to a bruise or a wound, he makes sure to lighten the touch or merely dab at the tender flesh in an effort to spare the prisoner some of the pain.

Not once do they have eye contact. _Look at me, coward._

“How can you follow his orders?” Leira’s words only make him pause, hands in the warm water as he soaks a fresh cloth. “How can you _not_ recognize his fanaticism? His cruelty?”

The rivulets grow steadily dirtier on their way from her shoulders, rust and rubies mirrored in the colours until the liquid pools on the floor where it searches for the thin cracks it can disappear through. Each time a cloth is dipped, wrung, or applied to the nephion’s form the scents of blood and lye float on the vapors, making her eyes and nose sting, though not as badly as the places where the skin has been broken.

“It’s not my place to doubt. Michael’s trying to save our kind.” There’s a faint waver in his voice, spreading as a quivering in his wings and nearly causing the last feathers to lose their grip. “My role’s to serve.”

“Bullshit!” This man looks and sounds like her father, but if he’d been the real deal, then that would never have been his answer. “Your role’s to protect God’s creation and alleviate pain and suffering where you can.”

“That might have been true once –“

“It _still_ is! It’ll always be true ‘cause that’s what you’re _made_ for. In another world, you’d be kind and understanding enough to see the goodness in someone despite what everyone else’ld want you to think!”

The hands of the Rit Zien are shaking. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 _To Hell with it._ Nothing Leira can say or do will get her in more trouble than she already is, whereas the only chance she has is to get someone on her side. There aren’t a lot of options to pick and chose from.

“Look at me. _Please._ ” She ignores the pain from the manacles as she moves to catch his eyes. Amber, dark with worry and just like hers. “I know I’ve got nothing more than my word to give you, but I _know_ everything I say is true. You can’t be that different from my father when what he was _is you_ under different circumstances.”

The hand holding the wet cloth stills mid-motion save for the tremor of intuition fighting logic as Tabbris turns the nephion’s words over endlessly. Drops of water begin to dry on partially cleaned skin while he thinks, and all the while Leira doesn’t dare to push him further, knowing how close he is to connect the dots that lead him over the edge and tumbling down the rabbit hole. Panic sets in as he gets up with a sigh, numbing the woman’s mind to the point where she can’t even voice her desperation. Each step suddenly echoes through the room only to be drowned by the cannon-like rumble of the door closing by his hand, separating the two of them from the rest of the world. Breathing in deeply, he rests hands and forehead against the wall for a moment as if to feel anchored.

“Forgive me, Father.” Tabbris’s words are swallowed by the dust and stones.

Holding her breath, Leira attempts to discern what the words mean, but is distracted by her could-have-been father that kneels before her, stretching a calloused hand to her forehead. There’s no time to object before the fuzzy presence invades the memories and every emotion tied to them. Sensing the sluggishness, perhaps because of the fading grace, the prisoner pulls forth each impression in the hope that it will stand clear for him. _Bittersweet._ Past events seem to pale in the light of her current situation. The faces of friends and the only two she has known as family bring a heartwarming pain that she promises herself, once more, she’ll never forget.

…

 _My fault._ Kicking at the ground, Dean curses himself for always bringing pain to anyone that becomes part of his life. _Jody will kill me._ As soon as he thinks it, he knows that she won’t. No, it’ll be worse. She’ll cry even if she’ll try to hide it, and she’ll blame herself without listening to all of those who tells her that she didn’t do this. Jody didn’t kill Claire. That damn teen wolf did and having ended the son of a bitch’s life should make Dean feel a tad better, but it doesn’t because the blond girl’s still lying on the couch in the cottage, fighting for her life as the only thing that might cure her also happens to be the thing that can kill her outright. _“It’s my choice”_. She’d sounded so strong, so sure of herself. It almost made sense for a second, and how could he (an old, pessimistic hunter) deny her that right? So he’d backed down.

Kicking a mossy stone, the dull pain in his toe from the impact is welcomed even if he knows the distraction will be short-lived. The callous, self-deprecating voice of his own logic whispers to him that there are ways to live with something like lycanthropy. The brothers have seen it. And feisty, young Claire wouldn’t have had to be alone with the challenges. There would’ve been Jody and Alex and Donna. Not to mention themselves, Team Free Will. _It’s on me._ Unable to deny the truth, Dean swears to himself that he’ll never let anyone do this again.

“Dean.” Sammy’s voice comes from far off with no further explanation, but the flat intonation is enough to reveal the reason.

His shoes have turned into lead, and his guts are squished by something equally heavy and cold, making the few dozen feet back inside feel like miles. _I have to say goodbye…it’s the least I can do. _Stealing himself, Dean pushes the door open to the cottage, somehow getting all the way to the end of the couch where the kid is lying motionless, claws and fangs still visible and blood drying around the mouth. _She’s just a kid._ It isn’t right and knowing that they’d warned her repeatedly and tried to get her to stop living the same fucked-up life as them just isn’t enough to shield him from the guilt and plummeting despair.

“You guys look like crap.”

…

Eventually, the mist clears and the prisoner and her warden study each other in the warm glow of the torch. _Now he knows,_ the thought causes shivers to run the length of Leira’s spine, _he knows and all I can do is pray._ Tabbris says nothing, his mouth a thin line and the shadows clinging to his features. Unable to bear looking directly at him, the nephion shifts the gaze to his wings and grace. _Is it even fainter now?_

“You…” he has to clear his voice before continuing, “you’ve been speaking the truth. I see that now.” Tipping back onto his heels, the angel wipes a hand across his face, smoothing out the fine worry-wrinkles. “But Michael…I have to believe we can fill the ranks!”

“Even if you could make more angels…their grace will fade like yours unless you bring them to Heaven.” A sadness wells in his eyes, so pure that it hurts within the half-angel too. “You’d have to return home with your…children.”

“Oh, I pray we could, but…we’re too weak now.”

“I’m not. Tell me how and I’ll help you…just…save me from Michael. Please.”

…

Sam knows that the blond girl’s right: they do look like crap. Not from the scuffle, but from being absolutely sure they’d lost her. That the cure had failed like Mick had said it would. _She’s alright._ Other people would find it hard to fathom and even the two brothers don’t dare believe it for a few seconds until she smiles, thin cracks forming in the drying blood that makes him think of another bloodied mouth, one with fangs. As usual, he pushes the memory away. _Claire’s alright._ The knowledge settles, warming the hunter from the inside with an uncontested glory.

The fierce façade the girl keeps up by default crumbles when both brothers offer her help to sit up, and while Dean wraps his arm around the tiny figure, Sam’s the one that hurries to the sink to grab a tea towel and wet it for her to get cleaned up a bit with. The sight of the two figures on the couch is oddly familiar. Despite all their differences and the big brother’s pretence of being a tough guy, as they grew up, it was always Dean that would console those who needed it…including Sam. Dad never did unless it served a purpose in a hunt.

There’s a soft, scraping sound from the corner the British guy has retreated to. Any goodwill he had accumulated (including readying the syringe with the sire’s blood) has just been spent, saving him from getting his face kicked in, but the guy new he wasn’t home safe. Not yet.

“C’mon.” Sam has to fight to keep his voice even. “Let’s get outta here.”


	44. Mutiny

Naturally, Tabbris doesn’t have the keys for the shackles anchoring the prisoner to the bars. The last archangel would never give them to someone else, not with the plan he himself has in mind for the female and the future of his kin. What he (oddly) hasn’t considered is that anyone would simply retract the metal rods, which would grant freedom to move. Standing on shaking legs, Leira doesn’t bother about her naked form anymore, her attention is completely on the first step out of the circle that has been her prison. Nothing stops the nephion. _Freedom._

“Wash up, child,” the Rit Zien nearly falters at the last word, “I…I’ll find something for you to wear.”

He’s gone before she can thank him. Hobbling to the far corner, she digs through the pile of belongings that haven’t been moved since Michael went through her bag and tossed some of her clothing over there. _Thank you, both_. The silent appreciation is meant for Amara and Chuck, because there are her boots and the blade is still tugged away in the homemade sheath.

By the time Tabbris returns, the former prisoner is clean and has started making a strong noose out of the leather from the bag. None of the other weapons she had are there, but she hadn’t expected that.

“Here.” Strong hands hold out a stack of fabric before the fading angel turns away.

The bundle contains leather and linen in dull colours, perfect for keeping a low profile. A long, broad strip of suede gets wrapped tightly around her chest before she slips on the tunic and even a pair of socks. Leira’s eyes aren’t straying far from the other person while she dresses in subtle pants, belt and a light leather harness. _It could be a trap._ With the cuffs still on, none of the skills connected to her heritage are available to her. No flashing or healing, and that might be exactly the point. What could be more torturous for a prisoner than to think they’ve regained their freedom, only to walk into a trap when they eagerly leap into the light? And speaking of light, it almost seems as if Tabbris’ grace has dimmed. _Just my imagination._ Wrapping the fingers around the dangling ends of the manacles, she knows where to land the one blow that’s needed.

The male’s shoulders rise and fall for a sigh that barely manages to still the trembling of his wings. “I’m sorry.” Tabbris is still standing with his back to the nephion. “For allowing Michael to…”

Unspoken words hang in the air, too horrible for a Rit Zien to say out loud even if he allowed it to happen. He’s a healer, or he was once upon a time, which means he’s supposed to prevent suffering and pain, not stand by idly. An ember of resentment that has been seething in the pit of Leira’s stomach begins to flare at his reluctance to admit the actions he allowed to take place.

“Say it.” The hiss jolts him. “Be a man and call it as you see it, damnit.”

Coming face to face with him, the first tear has left a wet trail on his cheek. “Forgive me for letting him beat you,” reaching towards his belt, the big hands find the hilt of an angel blade while sinking onto the floor, “for cutting into your flesh and for…” the angel has pulled the blade free but holds it with the handle towards Leira and the tip pointing at his chest, “and for raping you. Judgement is yours to pass.”

The nephion stares at the man kneeling before her, reluctantly admiring the calm surrender. Stepping over, she accepts the blade. If it had been any other of the grounded angels, then she wouldn’t have hesitated to plunge the weapon into their heart and watch the grace burn away in their eyes.

“I need you a bit longer,” Leira tries to sound matter-of-factly, “you know the way. I don’t.” Stepping back, she loosely holds the dagger in her hand. “Get up.”

…

Both Claire and Dean are sleeping soundly (one of them in the literal sense) without a trace of the night’s events. Which one of them has the most use of it is hard to say, all things considered, but they’ve both deserved it in Sam’s opinion. _He even undressed,_ the little brother wonders as he softly closes the door to where the other man is sleeping. It’s been years since Dean stopped changing for the night when they’re on the road. Years, where he would stir at the lightest sound unless he’d drunk himself to sleep, a gun held tightly under the pillow. Sure, the gun’s no doubt still there, but that will probably never change. As hunters, they’ll go down guns blazing because something finally catches up with them. That’s the life. Before they do, they have to save as many as they can from all the evil that’s out there in the darkness of the night, creeping in the shadows until the right moment to strike comes.

Soft footsteps walking by the door in the illuminated hallway makes Sam freeze, but it’s false alarm. _Nothing’s here now. They’re safe._ For a moment he’s lost to the idea of how safe they’ll ever really be. Afterall it’s not just monsters that pose a risk, but humans too. People with their own agendas and motivations, despite who might vouch for them. Like Toni Bevell. The resentment causes a burning pain to echo in his feet, and the hunter begins pacing the room to shake it off. He’d sworn then, never to affiliate himself with the British Men of Letters, yet here he is accepting missions from them and even having allowed one to come along with near-fatal consequences. _Someone did die._ Now a mother had lost both children, and only one had been to a recognisable monster while the other was on Mick’s conscience. Halting for a moment to pour a new drink, the tall man ponders how, in the end, the Englishman had done the right thing with Claire and given them the knowledge it took to cure the girl.

…

Leira’s following the only ally she has through deserted passages. Unless the former Rit Zien is deceiving her, then they’re heading to Michael’s chambers where the keys to the magical cuffs should be. Scurrying past a glass-less window, the nephion sees heavy clouds illuminated in the cold moonlight that also glitters upon every surface below. A few sniffs of the breeze is enough to tell the woman that winter has arrived with the first frost.

“This way.” Tabbris’s whisper kicks her into motion. “The commander never has guards at his quarters.”

“Good.” She stops and turns the man by placing a hand on his shoulder. “If you lie…”

“I don’t.” A few fluffy, downs float upon the cold breeze, but the face before her is calm. Honest.

 _Mom always said he was a bad liar._ “We’ll see.” Hesitating for a second to reconsider the possible scenarios, Leira takes a leap of faith. “He might be there. If so, then he’ll chose to fight, right?” The greying curls nod and bounce. “I won’t let him take me alive.”

His smile’s sad, and heartbreakingly similar to the kind grimace her father used to make when he tried to encourage her as a child despite the odds. Oh, how the nephion wishes she was a child again. That she could walk into his embrace and feel safe once more, knowing that her invincible parents were looking out for her the way parents should. That she could see their smiles again and hear their voices call her name or their loving, teasing comments to each other, like on the evenings where the only light was from a few candles and the embers in the fireplace. For more than a century, the nephion has been able to stay detached from the broken corner of the heart that used to house her family.

Gentle fingers wipe something off her cheek and Leira has to blink to focus on the blurred-out face. “Don’t be afraid.”

“Afraid,” she scoffs, “I’m not afraid.” The chains rattle faintly as she rubs the wetness away. “Don’t get in my way no matter what happens.”

Tabbris nods gravely, then he turns and leads the last part of the way to the largest double-doors yet. _This is it._ He has explained what she can expect behind the wooden barrier. Coming in, they’ll look directly at a large desk with lighter chairs on this side of it and the leader’s seat facing them. All along the left wall will be a bookcase which also serves as storage for other item that Michael likes to display and aren’t as big or heavy as the weapons and other loot hanging on the walls. Those things are from the enemies he has defeated. To their right will be an arch that leads to the bed chamber and the only buffer between the two rooms is a heavy curtain.

 _I have to ask why he even has a bed._ But there’s no time for that now as Tabbris opens the door, the surprisingly well-oiled hinges preventing any squeaks from giving away the intrusion. Stepping in after the guide, Leira carefully closes the door, making sure to lock it from the inside. The narrow window-slits where the indirect moonlight seeps in serves as the only light source, but it’s enough to show that any search will take longer than she’d hoped. A soft rustle draws her attention towards deep-purple fabric separating the rooms and the nephion half expects the archangel to step out. When he doesn’t she resumes studying the room. According to her new friend, the silver blade will not be enough to kill Michael, assuming there’s enough grace to count for anything, instead she’ll need a golden, twisted blade. Soft clangs from the desk alerts Leira, and she sees Tabbris pull out a leather strap with two heavy keys on. _Bingo._

A moment later, and the odd partners watch as the injuries on the woman’s wrists disappear without a trace along with the other injuries. As welcome as the healing is, it also drains the level of energy the former prisoner has left, drawing the need for feeding much closer. Each movement releases a deep throbbing in the fangs, and she has to fight to keep them from descending.

“What are you doing, Tabbris?” Words like venom break the silence, announcing Michael’s arrival. “Has she decided to talk?”

Facing him, the nephion shows that nothing is restraining her movements or abilities. It only lasts a split-second, but it’s enough for them to see it. Cold fear flares like blue stars in his eyes, then a recognizable resolve replaces it, the sneer curling his mouth and his stance changing to that of a warrior’s, including the raised hands one of which is holding the archangel blade. Flipping her borrowed blade around, Leira squares off before him.

“Blasphemer.” Michael’s insult is meant for the other angel in the room. “Traitor. Do you want to see us all die by the hands of that monster?”

Meeting his commander’s eyes calmly, Tabbris shakes the head slowly. “The only monster here’s you.”

Whatever answer the archangel had expected clearly wasn’t what he got. In his outrage, he lowers his guard, baring himself to the attack Leira immediately launches. Although her target doesn’t go flying, he stumbles backwards into the heavy drapes at the impact of her boot-clad foot, ripping the fabric when he instinctually grabs it for support. With a curse, Michael lands on the stone floor, half covered in a purple layer that he struggles to free himself off. The nephion leaps to him, crashing down with a knee onto his chest and another on the wrist of the hand holding the golden weapon. _He’s strong._ His vessel is a male in his prime and the inhabitant’s from the most powerful tier of angels Leira has ever faced, but the dwindling grace and prone position puts Michael at a disadvantage and he loses the grip on his only powerful weapon. Picking it up herself, the woman holds the new blade with the tip against his chest by the rapidly beating heart, the silver edge scrapes against his throat.

“Ah-ah!” The mocking warning’s enough for the archangel to stop struggling. “Well…this is an interesting turn of events, don’t you think?”

“Screw you, devil-spawn.”

Choosing not to point out the obvious, Leira repositions herself to straddle him without once moving the weapons. Then, never taking her eyes off the target, does she send Tabbris’s blade skittering over the floor towards where the owner’s standing, the golden blade now poised against the windpipe. This frees a hand to remove the curtain.

“Can’t have you do any funny things with that, now can we?” If looks could kill, then she’d have been dead, but unfortunately for Michael he has no such powers. “I’m still willing to do what I can to help save your kind, just not the way you want it…Mike.” Electric blue flares in his eyes, earning him a shallow cut across the windpipe. “We’ll find a way for them to return home. Maybe there’s even a way to make more angels once upstairs, I dunno.” A few deep red drops have collected in the thin gash and the sight causes the dental throbbing to resume. “But Mike, my little sinner-man, you won’t see it.”

Trailing the tip across his neck and chest, the golden metal comes to a momentary halt in Michaels armpit, but that’s not where he looks. Dark eyes grow with repulse and fear as he sees the perfect fangs erupt, lips curled to bare them in a devious grin. Even if he had wanted to, it would’ve been impossible for the man to turn his face away, because she’s got his short curls in an iron grip as she bends down and sinks the teeth in simultaneously with the blade, puncturing veins and arteries alike. A bitter taste like really dark chocolate fills the nephion’s mouth, but it’s warm and each draught returns the strength she’s lost during her time as a prisoner and she relishes in the velvety softness and palpable despair oozing out of the man beneath her. Michael’s still alive when she straightens up. _Barely._ What little grace’s left in him extinguishes itself in his attempt to heal the wound in his neck.

So faint only the nephion can hear it, he whispers, “N-no…”

“Yes, Michael.”

Cupping his cheek in the weaponless hand, she recalls the feeling that washed through her when she took eliminated the coven of witches. Next instant a cloud of intense pink settles on every surface facing where the archangel had been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've gotten a lot busier irl due to projects/assignments at internship and social stuff like bdays and family. In other words: it might be a while before the next update. Sorry. Feel free to leave a not if you've liked the story so far!


	45. Letting go

Listening to Mick’s story had been an eyeopener. Not that Dean would admit to that anytime soon but learning that not every single one of those Brits were posh, semi-royal, self-entitled assholes had resulted in a new understanding of the overseas Men of Letters. They’d found a kid and brainwashed him into being a tool. The story’s oddly familiar, but despite the newfound sympathy something about it keeps nagging in the back of the older brother’s brain. _Claire knows how to stay off the radar._ It’s hard to trust that Mick won’t hand her over to his superiors even after seeing that he at least might be…well, maybe not good, but at least trying. The guy’s even letting them handle the issue with Kelly Kline too.

“If only there’s something to handle, ‘ight?” When there’s no answer, Dean turns to look for Sammy.

The tall guy’s slumped over the table, cheek resting on the crossed arms and the longish hair splayed across them and the books and papers beneath. His back and shoulders are rising and falling in a slow rhythm, the giant’s breathing challenging the busy droning from the laptop where lines of text replace each other in a constant stream as databases and police scanners are being ripped for information which the Winchesters will have to sort through later. Maybe they’ll find a case. Maybe they’ll find something about a pregnant woman or a man in a trench coat. Reaching over, Dean closes the device silently before getting up to find a blanket. _Don’t wake up, little brother._ The last couple of days, Sammy’s finally gotten to sleep properly without any nightmares to wake him and it’s working wonders for the man.

…

Thinking back at the last days’ events, Leira knows that she’s alive only because the angels fear her. Even Tabbris. It’s not entirely clear what’s worse in the former healer’s opinion: that she drank Michael first before smiting him, or that she smote him in the way of a Rit Zien. But it hardly matters which it is, as long as Tabbris’ and his comrades keep debating. It’s the second or third day of meetings in a row, and in that time, the nephion has mainly stayed in Michael’s quarters where the angels came running to as soon as they sensed the void in the world that used be filled by the commander of the armies of Heaven.

They’d seen her, by then standing in a sea of pink, golden blade in one hand and the wings stretched to their full size. None had dared to force her back to the prison, instead they tried to lock her in the room. Unsuccessfully. She would simply flash to the other side of the door, startling the unfortunate individual who’d been tasked to stand guard. After that, they’d shadowed her from a safe distance as she explored the place before eventually settling down with Michael’s many books and items in the hope of learning something. The only time they requested something, was when they asked her to appear at one of the meetings to testify that she had killed their leader. _“I will say nothing, unless you will listen to the complete recount of the events since I arrived at this bastion.”_ The dismay had been palpable. Like a greasy layer in the air, it clung to everything in the room and made the faces turned towards Leira slippery in such a way that only the most vivid words broke through in the beginning…but they could recognize the archangel’s unwavering dedication in even the foulest of his deeds. Slowly the hostility began to crumble, giving way to guilt.

A rare knock on the door startles Leira out of the memories. “C’m’in.”

Followed by a timid flock of other fading angels, Tabbris enters the room. There’s a new air of authority around him when he straightens his back in the attempt to hide his frazzled nerves from Leira, though she’s done nothing towards him (save for scaring him by killing the archangel who’d seemed infallible in his and the others’ eyes). In an attempt to boost the confidence of the only ally she has, the nephion takes her feet of the massive desk and closes the book to give him her undivided attention.

“Leira. We’ve come to the conclusion that you’ve told the truth,” someone nudges him in the back and Tabbris clears his voice, “so…as such, we’ve decided not to seek any justice for the murder of Michael.”

“That’s uhm…good news.” _There’s a but._

Ignoring more pushes from his fellows, the Rit Zien braces himself once more. “However, I…we…there’s the matter of the promise you made!”

She hadn’t been very specific when trying to convince the male to help her get out of the prison cell. Afterall, what can she do? _Why should I help anyone that held me captive?_ Moving slowly, Leira drops the book on the table with a hollow thud that startles the angels. Still pacing herself, she stands and walks around the desk, but each step that should’ve brought her closer sends the group backing away nervously. She partially wants to chide them for their lack of courage and the nephion’s aware of the thought crossing her mind before she can beat it down by reminding herself that they might see her as someone powerful. Powerful enough to smite an archangel.

“I remember the promise…” a soundless sigh escapes Leira as she perches on the edge of the desk instead, “what’s the plan?”

…

The pain’s excruciating! Cutting deep into Sam’s neck and shoulder, it’s all he can do to get to his feet without stumbling as he tries to regain his bearings in the dimly lit room. _By Crowley’s suit, it fucking hurts!_ Each attempt at turning his head sends new stabs of pain towards his arm, but apart from that it’s completely numb and ignores the mental prompts of moving. Even opening his mouth the few millimeters needed to let out a rumbly groan makes him wish for proper painkillers. _Maybe morphine?_ Sam rubs his face with the usable arm. _Painkillers would be good._

“Morning, Sammy.” Somehow the big brother sounds much too cheerful. “Coffee’s brewing and I’ve just made eggs ‘n bacon.”

It’s pure habit, when he tries to look at his wrist watch. “Ooow…” A good chunk of the morning is already gone, as well as all of the night. “Did I…? Why didn’t you wake me?” Last thing he remembers is Dean bickering about the English man.

“You kiddin’, right?” The older brother nearly halves the distance between eyebrows and hairline. “It’s the first I’ve seen you sleep peacefully in a loooooong time. I wasn’t ‘bout to ruin that.”

He ushers Sam towards the kitchen and even pulls out a chair for him, something that for others might just be friendly, but to the younger brother is kind of suspicious. Still rubbing his neck, Sam watches as a plate with scrambled eggs and bacon is placed before him quickly followed by a cup of coffee.

“Eat up, man.” The weight of the heavy hand that lands on the sore shoulder as accompaniment to the words brings everything back to normal. “After that, you start talking.”

Testing the temperature of the dark, vital liquid, a mumble can be heard: “Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

…

Leira had expected a simple run-down of what the inhabitants of the last heavenly bastion on this earth remembered from Upstairs, instead she was getting a full-blown history lesson on the Apocalyptic Wars and the fragmentation of the angels once peace was refound.

Most had simply returned to Heaven, not wanting to have anything else to do with earth and the humans as they claimed that without the demons, there were no diabolic threats or temptations to taint the world. Of course, some angels had disagreed. Rather than simply letting one faction keep an eye on things on the ground, specializing in humans and their fickleness, and the larger group of angels be the main host in Heaven…well, words were said, accusations made. The straw that broke the allegorical camel’s back was when Michael and his comrades were incriminated during a heated discussion of “not trusting the Lord and his creation”. In protest, the “human-fraternizers” announced they’d rather stay on earth. They left despite the warning that they would be cut off.

“…and thus, only a single entrance was kept open, but none of us used it while we still could.” Tabbris is pacing the room in slow circles. “We new our grace would diminish over time...”

Only a handful of other angels have stayed, and one of them interjects morosely: “But things changed and even the presence of…home, which we used to feel, it… _disappeared_ as though…as though swallowed by the void.” All the stranded beings nod. “We tried to use the portal but were already too weak. Without anyone above letting us in, well…we can’t enter.”

The silence is deafening and Leira can feel the burning from their eyes upon her skin. _I’ve got the grace._ A different prickling spreads across her body as she fears they might want to steal the power that resides in her. Castiel has once told her that it’s possible, although the result isn’t quite as strong as when it’s the angel’s own grace.

_If they try, I’ll kill them too…or flash away._ “Y’all better be really careful what you’re ‘bout to say.”

She sees their nervous glances and hears the shuffling of their feet. Nearly naked wings quiver, reminding her of newly hatched birds shivering in the cold before the parent provide heat. Not for the firs time (and probably not for the last time either), they look to Tabbris to handle the situation.

“We want you to go to Heaven for us.” Eager nods does nothing to break the silence until he speaks again. “Go to the portal, use it to travel to our home, and speak with out brothers and sisters. Learn _why_ they are silent. Put our minds at ease…please.”

_Angels begging._ Several sections of Hell has been frozen over for all of existence, but maybe the rest has too now that the impossible is unfolding right before her eyes. Leira knows it’s unheard of, someone with demonic heritage and traits being asked to enter Heaven, and frankly it does frighten her, because all her life both angels and demons have been synonyms of danger, and that notion has been proven right again since the arrival at the fading angels’ last bastion on this earth. _Now they want me to enter their home._ Not even a fool would presume to be greeted friendly upon arrival and the nephion does actually pride herself of not being a complete idiot, but watching the desperate faces and the fading graces, she’s reminded of the time in her childhood after both of her parents were killed and she had no place to turn. No home. No one to care for her when she needed the help. _Fuck…_ a sigh expels the last doubt lingering within the nephion.

…

_Thank Chuck for Eileen,_ Sam muses as he watches his older brother pacing back and forth while trying to get a hold of Cas on the phone. The petite hunter had contacted them with information that she claimed they’d be more than interested in. Of course, she’d been right. As young and innocent-looking as Eileen is, she’s wicked smart and anyone dismissing her will end up regretting it which, coincidentally, the brothers had learned the hard way. That’s why she’s now sitting in the bunker’s library, briefing them on how she’d found a demon working for Dagon. Thankfully, it had given her one piece of useful information before getting stabbed in the heart. _Don’t mess with the quiet ones._

“The dead guy, by the way,” Eileen continues, making sure to enunciate as carefully as she can, “ith an obthetrithian…or wath. He thaw Kelly Kline.“

_Obstetrician._ What would the guy have seen or learned at that consultation? Horns and tail? Wings? Of course, the physical peculiarities are mere details. Catching Dean’s eyes, the younger brother knows that they both are dreading what sort of baby gets a doctor killed and how Kelly Kline in any way can be alright with the pregnancy, knowing what she’s expecting.

Shrugging, Dean makes sure to have Eileen’s full attention before speaking. “Got a chance to check the office?”

“Duh! Bit of blood from the doctor, of courthe.” She waves in annoyance with her hand. “The data had been wiped ath I thaid…demon knew what he wath doin’.”

“Great. Nerd-demons.” To Dean, IT is something he only dabbles in out of need. Or for porn, but in his world that’s more or less the same.

_Even if we call, she won’t just come see us._ The cool beer soothes the agitations that had flourished since their visitor started on the story, allowing Sam’s brain to function once more. The other two are chatting about Dagon and how many people she might have working for her, but the tall guy’s analyzing each word and phrase for more information or maybe ideas on what to do. Terms like obstetrician, consultations, and controls are take apart and boxed appropriately before the deeper themes are scrutinized. _Dagon would not have wanted to run the risk of a doctor’s visit,_ that much seems clear to Sam, and he extrapolates that it must have been Kelly that insisted, somehow getting the Prince of Hell to agree. Wanting to ensure the baby is fine would fit neatly with her choice of keeping it. Logically, then, she’d take it seriously if it were to be implied that the doctor had found something in the tests and wanted to do a follow-up.

“Guys.” Sam waves his hands at the other two. “I dunno how to ensure Dagon won’t come, but I’ve a plan to get Kelly to show up where we want.”

Filling them in on the loose plan, he’s soon got them brainstorming for how to deal with the demon.

“How ‘bout your angel?” Instinctively, Eileen’s looking at Dean.

A blush kicks in right away as the normally wise-cracking guy struggles to formulate a sentence. “Why’d you…it’s not…he’s not…I don’t actually _own_ Cas!”

The girl’s eyebrows both shoot up though it takes less than a heartbeat for just one of them to drop down again when she notices Sam’s grinning quietly, fixated on the brown bottle in his hands and the etiquette that suddenly has to be removed. Tilting her head, she silently beckons for the older hunter to elaborate.


	46. Prepare for the worst and hope for the best

_At the very least,_ Leira muses, _they’re a lot friendlier._ The angels are still keeping a safe distance to her, but they are not quite as guarded as they tell her all they can remember of their old home. Leaning against the wide doorframe between the kitchen and the dining hall (which is much bigger than needed, hinting that it was built for a larger group), she watches as they prepare for their meager meal without having to trail back and forth after whoever decides to speak up. It would’ve been impossible anyways, as they all have something to say and they sometimes forget to wait their turn. It’s becoming evident that even though each and every single one of the angels volunteered to join Michael on earth, they had still felt the loss of their home even before it became a reality. What’s an angel without Paradise or God? The answer to that riddle is simply: broken, lost. The first and only angel to voice his sadness had barely had time to realize what was about to happen before Michael had destroyed him, and since then the rest had followed the unwritten rule of silence for the sake of self-conservation.

“You _do_ get that I can’t promise to get y’all home, right?”

As usual Tabbris speaks for the collective, his words countering what Leira’s intuition picks up on. They want to go home, or at least she thinks so to herself despite the new leader’s assurances that they don’t plan on that. Either way, it’s going to be a project in its own if the angels all have to get to the last portal which, apparently, is located on the summit of the tallest mountain. They can’t fly and even if Leira accepted to flash them there one by one, there’s no guarantee that the bloody gate even is open anymore.

“Alright. So…I go there, step onto the sigil and it beams me up,” she summarizes, “I go through a door…number 42 which’s a hilarious choice by th’way…” None of the angels seem to get why, and she realizes those books never have been written in this world. Rather than explain, she hurries on. “I follow the hallway to the low numbers, pass the bend and that’s the office.”

“Yes.”

“Pre _su_ ming,” voice distinct, she glares at a pair of brawny fellows, “that they’ve _not_ immediately grabbed me and imprisoned me for my…peculiarities…” Both males suddenly find the floor or opposite wall highly intriguing, making Leira smirk gleefully. “They’re _not_ gonna be happy to see me.”

Pausing on his way to the table with pitchers of water, Tabbris studies her with the scotch-hued eyes she’s inherited. Like the flock of comrades, he guards his emotions well and an outsider would not be any wiser as to what he feels or thinks…but Leira’s no stranger to his face and the tiny details that hint at his emotional state, even though the one she learned it by was of an alternate reality and died long ago. That tug at the upper lip, that way of holding the head, and the attempt at looking into the very soul of her. Swallowing hard, Leira has to remind herself that this isn’t her father.

“Leira.” _Damnit, he even says it the same way now!_ “I…what happened,” the deep voice wavers slightly before he regains control, “it can’t be undone, but we’ll do what we can to ensure your safety on this mission. You’ll be bringing a token as proof that you come in peace on our behalf.”

…

Sam hadn’t thought that waiting in the winter weather had been fun, even less so with the two Brits around. _Mick’s not all bad._   The new guy, however, is an absolute dick, who’s only capable of talking about how he’d done at Kendrick’s, clearly ignoring that none of them gave a rat’s ass about it. Eileen had shut him up for a little while at first, but that hadn’t lasted long, unfortunately, and they’d more or less been forced to stay in the car or listen to him drone on and on and on without once bothering to show any interest in anything else. Not even in Kelly Kline, oddly enough.

Eileen’s the first to spot the car, alerting the rest of them to the headlights drawing nearer as the vehicle follows the narrow gravel-road until it comes to a halt by the empty containers. It’s hard to tell with the headlights facing him if there’s a passenger in the car, but as Dean kills the engine the doubt dies with it. The English guys are squaring off on the flanks as Sam sends the much shorter hunter by his side a reassuring nod.

Dean looks more grim than usual, telling them without words that their worry had been right and Kelly isn’t exactly happy about being there. “This everyone?” he asks, disappointment like lead in his voice.

“Yeah…still no word from Cas.” Being single might have been a lot better for both of the brothers.

Hostility permeates the air to the point where it should be possible to taste it on every breath, still the tension rises by misplaced introductions and offers of help that Kelly chooses to dismiss.

“I…I love this child…” The pain in her voice tugs at something deep inside Sam.

_This sucks._ People don’t choose whom they love. It’s just something that happens. If that’s true with adults, then how can they expect anything less when it comes to a mother and her child, unborn or not? Allowing his gaze to drop to her grown belly, Sam’s tries to judge how far along Kelly is. _Two months away? Less?_ Pregnancies aren’t exactly his specialty.

Both brothers try hard to keep some semblance of control and civility at this wannabe intervention. They really do. They’ve almost defused the third or fourth potential quarrel, by the time the weather switches dramatically and Kelly announces that Dagon’s arrived. Then time simultaneously slows down and speeds up, and next thing Sam knows is that the Prince of Hell’s gone with the mother and the English guy’s face down in the muddy gravel. _I was wrong before_ , Sam’s brain sluggishly corrects him, _this is the part that sucks._

...

Rechecking that both blades are safe in her boots, Leira thinks she’s about ready to go. _Odd token._ She’d expected a crucifix or something peaceful and symbolic, instead she’s been handed a spear that has been hanging in Michael’s room. The shaft is smooth to the touch save for the single row of inscriptions from the head towards the butt, and as her hands close around the caramel-coloured wood, she sees the sigils glow similarly to grace if only for just a moment.

“This seems…remarkably threatening, to be honest.”

Tabbris chuckles at her words. He’s the only one with her on the parapet from where he’s pointed out the destination high above them where the last rays of the sun still reaches. Up there, the snow’s glistening in hues of peaches and flamingos, a colour scheme that promises exotic beaches rather than the frigid temperatures of tall mountains in the early winter. Leira’s not fooled.

“I believe they will allow you to live long enough to explain.” The fatherly voice assures her.

_Awesome._ “I’ll come back to haunt your ass if they don’t.”

Without further ado, the nephion sets her sight on the distant summit, knowing it’s better to face the task than linger.

Boots sink into pristine, ice-crusted snow that reaches her knees, and thank goodness for that, because if it hadn’t been for the deep footing, then the howling wind would have swept the nephion away by sheer force. Bracing herself, she tugs the wings as tightly against her body as she can and leans on the spear to secure the balance while she gets accustomed to the thin air. Leira has to force her breathing to a slow and deep pace before looking around.

Having landed a few meters from the very top, she’s managed to appear in the only spot that’s at least partially sheltered from the wind. Not up around her head, but at the hips and down there’s a sort of calm thanks to a jagged slab of stone. On the other side of that, the snow’s been almost entirely blown away, leaving the few shards and pebbles to dance with each icy gust of air. Here and there are glittery dunes of what once was mountain but now is sand, and icy snow is clinging on with a tenacity that only nature shows. What catches Leira’s eyes, however, is the perfect sigil of straight lines and circles overlapping. _Pristine condition._ Pulling her feet free and replanting them one by one, she moves through the snow. Once free of the cold restraint, she glances towards the sky.

Muttered words leave her lips. “Okay, dudes…” If anyone’s guarding the place, then there’ll be no need to yell. “I’m coming in peace…even if I’ve got a freaking lance with me. So…don’t kill me, a’ight?”

Of course, no one answers and the nephion covers the rest of the distance until she’s in the middle of the sigil. Bright light drips upwards into the air from the pattern, swirling around her as it grows in magnitude and she feels the world fall away only to be replaced by a gloom with a slightly musty smell.

The only light comes from the thin outline of a rectangle which looks suspiciously like the outline of a door and just so happens to be the only sign of a direction to head in. Bracing herself, Leira pauses to listen before (when she has assured herself that no one’s on the other side of the door) fumbling momentarily in the dark for the handle. _Gotcha._ Pulling the exit (or entrance) ajar, she glances out. Nothing. Then she pokes her head out into the dim light. Still nothing.

Slipping the rest of the way out she considers the dated appearance of the hallways. Unsure what to expect, it’s still very close to being a disappointment for the woman who has spend a few centuries fearing Heaven and its custodians. The place was probably grand once with its marble floor and walls, the latter gradually alternating in colour as Leira looks past numerous doors of hard, grainy wood. Each entrance is marked with a number as promised by the grounded angels, but aside from that there’s nothing. _No one._

…

There’s a place between dream and reality, a sort of limbo where the human mind is susceptible to the surroundings without necessarily invoking a need to act, but if a trigger is strong enough, the person sleeping can wake without any clear idea as to why. Most of the time, they don’t even remember waking if they go right back to sleep.

Sam’s sleep cycle has brought him to that specific limbo, allowing his subconscious to grasp at the flutter of voices and images normally beyond reach. Soft voices blend and whisper, making the hunter tense in his sleep until he can distinguish them from each other, make out not just the words but also recognize the owners. The slightly urgent tilt of the male voice as it instructs to watch. The female tenor bringing encouragement that someone is near the goal.

“So close. Soon, we can bring her back to you,” she proclaims as the darkness of Sam’s dream is swept away by a clear image, “there she goes, down the hall. What she’ll find, she doesn’t know.”

Through the staccato of Amara’s words comes a sense of excitement as a familiar figure with dark wings creeps through a hallway of white and softly coloured stones. A haunted shimmer echoes in the facial expression of Leira, her jaw set tight and the knuckles white from the forceful grasp on a spear which she holds upside down. The nephion’s movements are recognizable as those of an old dance partner would be… _no, somethings changed._ Past numbered doors, sometimes checking for signs of followers or danger before continuing down the dimmed corridor.

Chuck’s mumble curls into the hunter’s ears. “She’ll come back with answers you one day will need.”

The image flickers to be replaced by the velvety fluff of sleep as the voices become distant.

“Give her time,” one of them says.

Bolting upright in the bed, the memory of the vision’s fading in much the same way a dream does. To hold on to it, he repeats the same words to himself over and over. A mantra based on the message. _She’ll be back with answers – she’s almost there. She’ll be back with answers – she’s almost there._ Struggling to wake up and get free of the covers, Sam stumbles to the door and into the cold hallway of the bunker only to realize that Dean’s (hopefully) asleep. There’s nothing any of them can actually _do_. Looking around the quiet place, the tall guy accepts that he’s awake now. _Shower, coffee, lore._ They need to find out more about Dagon, so he might as well use the time to something constructive.

…

Pushing the elaborately carved double-doors open wide, Leira scans the place for signs of life. Anything. From what the earthbound angels had explained, this room should function as the office and meeting room of the ruler of Heaven…which once had been god, then Michael before he and his brothers disagreed, and then Raphael who had severed the connection and taken over. But the high seat stands empty on its dais and the large table in the middle of the room holds nothing more than dust. _No one._ Although the losses supposedly had been hard during the Apocalypse, it doesn’t explain why no angel has shown up to confront the intruder. In a twisted way, Leira would have preferred a showdown with the typical glaring and pointing of weapons required for such a meeting.

That’s when she hears it. From far away, so faint she doesn’t know if it’s real or imagined, a voice crooning a melody with more emotion than the nephion’s comfortable with at that moment. Gripping the spear tight, she follows the voice, straining to hear the words. It’s a male singing. Each step brings Leira nearer the source of the sound and she starts to pick out the slightly yodelling shifts in the tune that carry a sadness deeper than the words can evoke on their own despite their direct simplicity.

“– echo-oes left hii-iim too!” The male croons melancholically as Leira reaches a corner in the hallway, pressing herself against the wall. “Aaayyy, he sits in daaaarkest silence…” Angling the tip of the lance, she searches for his reflection. “Remembers tiiimes gone byy-yy…and a-aall he knew are goooone…” He appears to be sitting on something with the back to her, so she pokes her head around the corner. “Like dust on wiiind they fly!” Here the angel mumbles something inaudible to the spy.

On the backrest of a wide couch, the angel is perched with his feet disappearing onto the seat out of view. He is indeed with his back to her, allowing a full view of the droopy wings where the matted, but intact, feathers of sky-blue and gold with white details make a shocking contrast after having seen Tabbris and the other angels below with their few, faded, and greyed plumes. Messy, dirty-blond hair partially covers his head and neck. Pulling back out of sight, the nephion racks her brain for anything she knows about angels.

“Nevermooore will they return! There was nooo-othing he could dooo…” the angel keeps on singing, his voice raw with emotion, “now a-all’s thoughts aaand me-e-e-emories…” Stealing a new glance, Leira realizes it’s not just some random song. _He’s singing about himself._ “Their echo-oes left hii-iim too…theeeir eche-oes lee-eeft him toooo!“

The deep, shuddering sigh is palpable even at this distance, and as the last, faint echo dies out it’s as if the silence comes crashing with a force capable of levelling cities and the realization of _why_ it’s so silent hits harder because the enormity of it is far worse than what Tabbris had prepared Leira for. He and his kind wanted her to go and see why the angels in Heaven have gone silent, when in reality it’s because there’s only one angel left…an angel that believes himself to be alone. Completely alone.

Taking a deep breath, Leira tries to steady her heart before stepping around the corner. “You’re not the last of your kind.”

If she’d expected him to react with shock or even joy, she’d have been disappointed. Instead, he scoffs and shakes his head, seemingly uninterrupted in whatever he’s working on behind those wings. Stepping closer, the nephion glances around the room she’s in. Bare walls, but both the ceiling and floor are made of glass which grants her an astounding view to the planet far below and the endless universe above, neither of which she has the freedom to admire at this moment.

“I said, you’re not the last one.” _Why doesn’t he even look up?_

“Right. And I’m not just imagining things.” Sighing, he tosses a stack of papers and a quill aside. “It’s alright, ol’ Gabe, it’s just your brain messing with you. If I look around there’ll be nothing or one of…one of…of…” With a rush, his wings rise and stretch, each quill vibrating with an intensity that makes the air sing and the small hairs of Leira’s arms and neck stand to attention. “GARH! Just STOP it!”

Swirling around so he stands on Leira’s side of the couch, rage and sadness make his eyes dark and dangerous as they land on the woman. She has time to see the white-knuckled clenching of his fists and to notice the vein on his neck that stands out delicately. The nephion is acutely aware of how he’s leaning towards her as if to launch an attack, and of course she reacts instinctively by whipping the spear up, her own stance adopting a fierceness that subconsciously is meant to scare an enemy away. Dark wings lift and loom over her, forming a living canopy that can lift her off the ground at any second. Thankfully it’s not needed. The angel, Gabe, stays perfectly still, his eyes travelling from her face towards the silver tip of the spear that’s resting against his throat.

“You’re _not_ a figment of my imagination.”

“No,” Leira admits, her brain working overtime to figure out the situation, “you couldn’t have thought me up.” _Gabe…Gabe…Gabriel?_

Something glimmers in the light brown and grey of his eyes. “Do you know what this lance is? Who _are_ you?”

“It’s the –“

“Wait no, scratch that!” It’s a calculative stare that travels across her, making the former prisoner feel exposed. “ _What_ are you?”

There’s nothing surprising about his question, still Leira sighs. “This would be so much easier to explain if your dad and aunt were here to vouch for me…alright…”

The nephion only closes her eyes for a split-second, but it’s enough. When she opens her eyes again, the angel’s no longer in his place, but right behind her. And arm snakes around her waist to prevent her from escaping as Gabriel (maybe) places two fingers on her temple, dumping her brain into a white, foggy soup until memories and emotions are dug up and rifled through. The archangel, as she has to accept that he is, works chronologically and even finds memories Leira wasn’t aware of from her young days, yet all too quickly he makes his way to the newer events, presenting her with images and senses she’s tried to push away rather than deal with. By the time the fog lifts, she finds herself sobbing and the grip on the lance faltering. She would’ve followed it when it clatters to the floor if it hadn’t been for the surprisingly strong arms supporting her. Blind fear rolls through the woman and she tries to get away, but all her strength is flowing out of her with the tears.

“I’m sorry, Leira. Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you. I promise…I promise.”


	47. The delicate process of planning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd really love some feedback, because it's starting to feel like I'm just writing for the same on (and very wonderful) person, but comments are like fuel. Who knows...I might even learn from them too if you point out errors or odd parts.

Of all the people the brothers have gotten used to showing up randomly, they still weren’t prepared for the morning Castiel walked back into the bunker. Sam’s immediate thought had been along the lines of “thank god”, because apparently the angel was alive and that was already more than what they had started fearing after he stopped returning their messages. Next moment the hunter found his brain concocting other worst-case scenarios meant to explain Cas’s absence the last months. Still, Sam would have preferred being stuck with that rather than the awkwardness he felt as Dean started talking and things took off from their.

It’s not that Sam can’t understand the older brother, but damnit, why does the guy always lash out when he gets emotional? Looking at the scribbles on the table before him, the tall hunter tries to think of anything but the argument the couple’s having in a room down the hall. _We need a plan._ The prompt doesn’t get his brain working, so instead he flips through the books in the hope that something, anything, will stand out. _We need a plan, we need answers, we need…_ and still his mind gets stuck in the frustratingly familiar dead ends they’ve gone over before. Finding Kelly isn’t going to happen again. There’s no way Dagon will leave the woman out of sight after what happened the last time. And the Prince of Hell herself is impossible to trace. Closing another book, he considers trying to find a new random demon working for the yellow-eyed bitch with a plan, but without a place to start, it’ll be impossible…not to mention that the one Eileen had found was exceptionally tight-lipped. _But then on the other hand…exactly how was that demon interrogated?_ For a moment, he allows the thoughts to chase after an idea in which they get a demon alive and question it…but then Sam drops it because he _knows_ what sort of interrogation it would take, and he knows who’s the best at it. There’s just no way in Hell, he’ll ask Dean to torture again.

He hears the familiar sound of Dean’s footsteps. _We can’t even track the damn thing…_ something inside his head clicks. They can’t track the demon, no. But what if there’s a way to track the angel or rather the angelic part of a nephilim? The thought isn’t fully formed as he begins to voice it to the short brother and of course Dean’s sceptical. The only way of finding an angel would have been by using some of its grace for the spell and Cas and Sam had failed in their attempt (back when they were trying to find Gadreel) because they didn’t have enough grace…and then it hits Sam. He knows what they can do to save the child without compromising the safety of the world.

…

Whatever Leira had expected would happen, she hadn’t considered being as much a part of it as she had become, but she was quickly learning that anything related to Heaven wasn’t something you could plan with. Yes, Gabriel had actually been alright in the sense that after having gone through her memories once, he no longer did anything without her approval. That included getting physically closer to her, even though it clearly was hard for him not to seek contact as a way of making sure the visitor was real. It was an action born out of necessity, because the moment the archangel had accessed her memories, everything Michael had done to the nephion came back to break her down, like a wrecking ball smacking through a brick wall. Gabriel had spent countless hours (if they use that in Heaven) to calm her down enough just to talk. From there, it had been a long road to where she no longer flinched at his slightest movement and yet longer before she agreed to help him bring the stranded angels home.

Descending from Heaven had been easy enough, and the odd pair had flashed (or flown as Gabriel called it) to Michael’s Keep where they had startled the remaining angels. They had all been thrilled, some of them even claimed it was a miracle. Leira thought it was Hell. Not the fact that they had been reunited with their brother and were going home but having returned to the site of her temporary prison, seeing the faces again of people who had allowed her to be tortured and raped…she hated it.

That’s another day ago. Since then, all the angels and the lone nephion have returned upstairs, and Leira’s sitting in a neat office (now fully lit) with Tabbris and Gabriel. On a coffee table between them is the Lance of Michael.

“So…it kills demons quickly and angels slowly?” It seems counterintuitive to the nephion, but then again…angels aren’t particularly nice creatures either.

The archangel nods solemnly. “Yeah. It was designed with one particular angel in mind and Mike wasn’t exactly the forgiving type, y’know.” Scratching his neck, he avoids looking at anything or anyone in particular. “He’d always go ratting us out to dad, but even if we said sorry it didn’t matter.”

“What’d you have to apologize for? Breathing?” The words slip out before Leira has a chance to reconsider them, but thankfully it makes at least the higher ranking of the angels laugh.

“Ha! Oh, I pulled a lot of pranks on him. Managed to get Uriel and Balthazar in on a lot of them too.” He’s still laughing so much that his dirty-blond waves and curls are bouncing. “Heehee, we were unruly fledglings, hehehehe.”

Tabbris isn’t sharing in the laughter. “Perhaps we should get back to the matter at hand…?”

It takes a bit longer before Gabriel has calmed down enough to focus, but once he’s quiet again both angels are somber and silent until Leira voices something she has wondered since she was little. “What _does_ happen to angels…and demons? When they die, I mean?”

“They go to the Empty,” the ex-hermit explains, “humans have either Heaven or Hell. Monsters end up in Purgatory.”

The Empty, Leira’s told, is what came before all of God’s creation and maybe even before Chuck and Amara and Death too, although no one really knows. Regardless of how or when it became, it’s supposedly nothingness in its most literal form, and as opposed to the souls in any of the other three destinations the grace or the twisted soul is not conscious of being there once the being is destroyed.

“But…if there _is_ a place the angelic, or demonic, version of a soul lands…can it then be brought back?”

Tabbris and Gabriel glance at each other briefly before returning their full focus on the student before them. “What…erm…what do you mean?” The Rit Zien asks slowly.

“Well…can you resurrect your brothers and sisters?”

 _Please say no, please say no._ She knows it’s not a kind wish, but the idea of Michael returning to life is clasping on to her lungs and mind with sharp talons of ice, making it hard to think clearly as the breath begins to sting in her throat. Fighting the urge to get up and leave the room, she starts to combat the fear by mentally conjuring things beginnings with S. _Sam, silk, sofa, stereo, spoon._ Already she’s having a hard time finding more, but it hardly matters much as she hears the answer.

“Not as far as I know…” Gabriel sighs. “We don’t recycle easily, I’m afraid.”

Tabbris has been thinking, though. “Is there a way to make new angels, brother?”


	48. Come and go

_Look at the bright side. Look at the bright side._ Cursing magnificently in his mind, Dean finds it hard not to pull the car off the road and shoot at something. Anything. _At least Baby’s back._ By some miracle, the crazy bitch hadn’t damaged the Impala in any way and when she and Castiel got the hell out of dodge…well, they hadn’t taken the gorgeous, black car. _Otherwise, I’d have gotten REALLY pissed off._ But who’s he kidding? Dean’s livid with the trench coat-wearing angel to the point that he can’t even stand to think about it. It doesn’t matter that the car’s back, or that both he and Sammy are unscathed. It doesn’t really make a difference that Dagon’s burned to ashes (which he _had_ enjoyed seeing while it happened), because Kelly’s _still_ missing and Cas’s still out of touch. And this time, they haven’t got the faintest idea what’s going to happen with the Nephilim once it’s born.

_Why? Why did he do it?!_ Something inside Dean had been missing until Castiel returned, but now that very same thing has been crushed and the splinters are travelling from his chest through the body, leaving hollow trenches in their wake and a cold emptiness just above the diaphragm. _Why did I give him a second chance?_ It’s a stupid question really, because the hunter knows deep down that no matter what the angel has done it’s always been attempts to fix things or keep the brothers safe, and right now Cas’s so damn desperate he’d do anything to right the many wrongs he believes he’s committed. _Stupid, haloed ass._

A deep sigh comes from the passenger’s side of the car, and a glance over proves that Sammy’s brooding too. Brows knitted and slightly pursed lips, mottled eyes fixed on infinity, Sam’s expression’s pained in an all too familiar manner reserved for situations that seem hopeless. What’s even more troubling is the lack of Dr. Phil being channeled. No wise ass comments. No attempts at talking things through. Not even a little “well it could’ve been worse if…” …and suddenly the silence feels oppressing.

“You know what we should do, man?” Adopting a brighter tone, the big brother continues without giving the guy a chance to answer. “We should find a bar and get loaded.” The groan is not enough to deter him. “Actually! We should find a strip club, somethin’ to _really_ take our minds off things.”

Oozing disappointment, Sam rubs his face. “You can do whatever y’want…just drop me off at the bunker first.”

“Party pooper.”

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

Looking at each other, tiny smiles softens their features. Cas might have gone AWOL with Kelly, proclaiming the devil’s kid _has_ to be born…but at least they’ve got each other. They don’t just see each other but also, out of the corner of their eyes, the movement on the backseat.

“What the –!” Tires screech as Dean stands on the break, pulling the impala sharply onto the gravel next to the road.

He’s partially aware of how Sammy reaches towards the figure that has materialized in the middle of the leather seat, and he hears the words that tumble from her lips, but none of it makes sense.

“Don’t _touch me!_ Let m’ out, let me _out!!_ ”

Leira’s voice is shrill with panic, and the older brother realizes she must be trying to teleport out of the car, which she can’t because they redrew the devil’s trap when all this mess with Dagon began. Admittedly, they’d also renewed the warding on the booth to keep both angels and demons from reaching the stash, but any black-eyed bitch stupid enough to materialize inside the impala wasn’t going to get away before they’d had time to ask questions. And why not? Neither of the brothers had thought the nephion would suddenly be there.

With the car fully stopped, Dean cuts the engines and turns in his own seat to see for himself. Reaching for door handles she can’t reach, the oddly dressed woman is twisting and turning to stay at a maximum distance from the brothers while her chest rises and falls rapidly like someone who’s been close to drowning. The dark hair is longer than he remembered, but her eyes…endless black and electric-blue flashes battle to overtake the usual warmth.

“Hey, Leira, heeey,” Sammy tries again, getting Leira to refocus on him as he holds a hand out slowly, “it’s okay, it’s us. We won’t hurt you.”

For a moment everything’s still as she looks from the outstretched hand to their faces. “Please…please let me out of the car,” she begs quietly, the scotch colour gaining ground in her wide-open eyes, “please…”

It takes a moment to pull aside a section of the tough fabric in the ceiling of the car, but once it’s lifted and a red, painted line has been broken, the woman is gone from the backseat only to appear a few yards in front of the car. Both men scramble to get out too, and Sammy would’ve run straight to her if it wasn’t for the iron grip the older of the two latches on to his arm with.

“Dean!”

The unspoken accusation in the little brother’s face stings, but the short hunter won’t let go. “Look at her, Sam. Something’s not right.”

Pacing back and forth, Leira’s shaking all over. Sometimes her fingers tug in the mess of dark hair, mostly they form hard-clenched fists with white knuckles and probably nails digging into the palms. The shoulders are pulled up tight, making them look oddly narrow and frail, unable to support the rapid heaves for breath. But Sam doesn’t care to think it through. _Of course, he doesn’t._ Finally getting free of the vice-like grasp, he hurries over to the woman. The moment his arms encircle her, a flash of light pushes him away forcefully as huge and dark wings (momentarily visible) beat up a storm.

“Don’t TOUCH ME!” Her voice booms even if it still has a panicked edge to it which turns in to a sob before she sinks to the ground, hand in her face and body jerking with each shuddering breath between the heartbroken crying.

…

Sam’s at war with himself as bright relief and cold desperation tugs at him, both urging him to get onto his feet and return to where Leira now has partially collapsed. He has absolutely no idea why the woman would react like she just did, flinging him across the road with a power that could’ve toppled a train. Whatever has happened, though, it must be bad because nothing has ever broken her, reducing her to the current state of distress. Pushing off the cold asphalt, the hunter glances to Dean, worried that the protective brother’s going to do something rash. But the hunter’s standing rock-still, hands out to the side and the normally stoic face he shows the world twisted in horror and sadness.

“What…happened?” The older hunter’s words rumble like a rockslide. “Leira, what happened to you?”

She doesn’t answer, the silence confirming something unspoken to Dean, and the hatred towards someone or something unknown radiates off of him like heat from a fire, washing over Sam. The woman has withstood torture and intense pain, even at their hands. _Did...has she…?_

Hunched low, Sam slowly moves towards her, making sure to keep his voice soft and his movements slow. “You’re back, no one will hurt you now,” he coos gently, “we’ve got your back. I’m not gonna let anyone get to you, Leira…you’re safe now…” he’s made it all the way over to the tightly curled human ball, “it’s gonna be okay, babe, you’re safe…”

Something inside him rips in the seams when the nephion looks up at him. Tears are streaming down her face that echo with an unspeakable horror only she knows about. One she desperately wants to escape. Blinking, she tries to dry her face with the back of her hand, but it’s an uphill battle and she gives up when fresh tears start rolling.

“Sam.” Her voice cracks. Next moment she’s in his arms, holding tight and with her face pressed hard against his chest.

“I’m here…I got you, you’re safe now.” Carefully, he wraps his arms around her, afraid she’ll push him away again, but it doesn’t happen. _She’s home._


	49. Home

Things are fucked up to say the least. As soon as they’d gotten home, Leira had basically locked herself in the room (only slowing down to raid the bunker for alcohol), and Dean is beyond pissed at Cas and the situation in general.

Sighing, the younger of the brothers hangs up the phone. “Jody’s gonna send an APB out.”

“Uh-huh.”

There isn’t much more to say to that, of course, but the lack of response makes Sam feel shipwrecked. He really wants to say or do _something_ to cheer up his big brother, but he knows this isn’t the time for empty words or promises when they’ve no idea why Cas would do as he did.

Heading for the kitchen, the hunter pours the last coffee in his mug and puts on the kettle for a new batch. Yes, why did the angel pull such a stunt? And _how_ did he do it? _We need answers._ The thought sparks a memory and he digs through the mess of a mind the current events has left him with while he blows on the hot liquid before taking the first sip. _Answers._ _Aaanswers._ Suddenly realizing what he’s trying to replace mentally, he inhales a mouthful of still liquid caffeine and has to cough before getting to actually act on the memory.

“Y’okay?!” Dean’s voice reaches him from the library.

Wiping away tears, Sam nods before yelling back that everything’s fine. _Or might be._

…

Leira finds it odd to sit on a soft bed in a room with her own belongings. The plant’s dead, which really shouldn’t have been a surprise or made her as sad as it has. There’s also more dust than when she left, but apart from that nothing has been touched, the boys have left it for her to come back to.

Draining the last pale-yellow liquid from a bottle with a fancy Scottish name on the label, she considers how to best get started, because really all the nephion’s been doing since getting back is to hide out and drink everything she’d managed to grab on the way to the room. The rough fabric of the otherworldly clothes is still scratching against her skin and even though the knowledge of where it’s from is enough to make her want to puke it’s also a protection of sorts. Changing would mean to undress. Being naked. At that thought, the cold panic she’s becoming acquainted with grabs hold of her lungs, sending tendrils into the rest of her body to keep the woman rooted in place. _Fuck._ Lifting the bottle to her lips, she repeats the thought when she realizes it’s empty. She twist around to place it on the long shelf above the bedrest just as there’s a knock on the door.

“Leira?” She can hear the concern in Sam’s voice. “Can I come in?”

 _He’s okay, he won’t hurt me, I can trust him._ The empty container rattles against the wood before she lets go of it. Again, the knocking startles her.

“Hey, you’re safe now. No one’s gonna hurt ya.” Somehow the hunter’s still speaking gently.

It takes a few deep breaths before the woman reaches out mentally to unlock the door with a click. Tugging the knees up against the chest, Leira’s hands rest on the boots…boots that each hold a weapon (the only reason she still wears them even in the bed).

When the man opens the door, he does it slowly and he pokes his head in before entering the room completely. She sees his frown and the way he moves more carefully than normal, hands where they are clearly visible.

“Want me to close the door?” Sam’s brows knit tightly together over his nose.

“No.” _How hard is it to make a decision?_ “Wait, yes.”

Ice bubbles in her guts as the only exit from the room’s closed. All of a sudden, it becomes evident how there’s no one else in there with them, and it doesn’t get better as the giant of a man sits down on the foot-end of the bed. _I can flash if I have to. I got my powers here._ If Leira payed attention to her own subconscious actions, she’d have noticed that her hands brush over the wrist as if to check if something’s there. She doesn’t, but she sees how Sam winces silently before looking away.

The only sound is the buzzing of electricity and the rapid flutter of wings. They’re both waiting. Waiting for a clue on how to begin. Or maybe hoping that some miracle will happen, and they know what to say, or more correctly, how to say what they need.

When the silence becomes oppressing, Sam finally clears his throat. “What, uhm…where were you?”

 _I can try to answer that._ “Amara brought me to a…an alternate reality. Like a parallel universe.” Leira has gone through the words often when she thought she’d be back quickly. “In this one, all sorts of events have led up to you and…and Dean postponing the Apocalypse. In the other world…” _This is where it can get tricky._ “In _that_ world, Lucifer didn’t get imprisoned ages ago, instead he raised an army and they fought it out much earlier. Their Apocalypse was a thousand years ago…the angels won.”

“Lucifer got killed?” The idea has the hunter’s eyes shining with passion and hope. “How?”

“Michael’s Lance.”

“They had the lance…” Gears and clockworks are turning under the soft locks of his.

“Still have.”

Just as quickly as it had appeared, the bright emotions are smothered. “Of course.” A scoff signals a switch before Sam continues sharply: “Is it too much to ask that they gave it to you or told you how to fix it?”

Logically, the woman knows the outburst isn’t aimed at her per se, rather it’s a result of whatever pressure the hunters and their friends have been under while she was gone. Still, it makes her flinch, reacting purely on instinct by pulling the familiar silver blade from the hiding place with one hand while immobilizing him with the other. The seconds seem to last forever. Kaleidoscopic eyes bore into her, begging without words for an explanation. _Crap._ Looking from the man to her own hands and back, Leira realize what she’s done.

“Sorry…” she can’t say anything else as there’s no air in her lungs and her vision blurs. _No, don’t show._ Squeezing the eyes shut, the nephion thinks of another place, flashing away from the man she doesn’t want to hurt.

…

Generally speaking, it holds true that a hunter’s life’s full of surprises. It requires adaptability and a certain flair for quick thinking to make sure you hit the ground running, because that’s needed to stay alive. Not to get cocky, but Sam’s willing to label his intellect as above average which is the reason his brain started analyzing everything the moment his sassy side lashed out. Scotch eyes had widened as Leira sucked in air. That had been the first noticeable reaction. The second had been split in two things happening simultaneously: he couldn’t move, and Leira had drawn the angel blade.

Now she’s gone from the room and Sam’s halfway through a mental list of possible places for the nephion to seek refuge. _Why’d I have to lose my temper?!_ Clenching and unclenching the large fists, he gets off the bed to start searching. Because of all the warding, it’s not possible for neither angels nor demons to teleport out of the bunker directly, forcing them instead to exit like any normal human being would through one of the two access routes. The main entrance’s right next to the library and kitchen, and Sam’s pretty confident that the woman doesn’t want to get too close to where Dean might be. That leaves the garage.

Running as fast as he can, accidentally bumping into the wall when he takes a corner too fast, the tall guy rushes to get there before the nephion. He barely slows down when bursting through the door and taking the steps three at a time to bring him the few feet up into the large space of the dark garage. Flicking on the lights, there’s no one to see and the gate’s still closed securely. _Then where did she go?_

Checking behind every door he passes on the way back, Sam feels his heart sticking in the throat and the clamminess of sweat evaporating from every inch of skin each time his search turns up nothing, silently underlining the building anxiety growing within. Following the curving hallway past the main path, an idea spurs him to skip several rooms, heading instead directly to the showers.

…

Brooding over a cup of joe and the laptop, Dean’s brought back to reality by the sound of a distant crash. There’s a gun strapped underneath the table and it feels reassuring as his fingers wrap around the grip even while he’s still getting to his feet.

“Sammy?!”

Hesitating for a few seconds to listen, the bowlegged hunter decides to investigate. This is the part of the job that he both hates and loves. There’s a thrill to it, stalking down some crazy or dangerous monster like a cat going after the mouse, except the mouse can fight back. The part he dislikes is not knowing what he’s going to face, and when that part involves his family the terror of the anticipation enhanced by a factor ten. Especially if it’s Sammy. Glancing both ways along the crossing hallway, Dean notices that one of the doors down the left-hand side is open. _The bathroom?_ It turns out the door hasn’t just been opened, it’s been kicked in and is hanging on one of the hinges, and from the brightly lit room the voice of Sam can be heard, soothing even if it’s too quiet to pick up on the words.

Stepping over the threshold, the big brother finds a familiar shape hunkered low, ass sticking out of a shower stall.

“Sam?”

Only a hand appears as answer, held up in a signal to wait. Dean stays quiet, tugging the gun away as it doesn’t seem to be needed. _What’s going on?_ Splinters are sprayed over the floor, dragged further into the room from the rush of whoever broke in… _which must be Sammy._ The only other person in the bunker’s Leira, and it’d been pretty obvious when they found her that she’s not doing too hot. Straining his ears, the hunter tries to pick up on what’s said. Mostly it’s the gentle giant, but as the minutes drag by Leira takes on a more active role until finally…

“Dean, just…sit down for a moment.” Pushing the hair out of his face, Sam looks over apologetically.

The haggard look on the brother’s face keeps any objections and bay. “Alright.”

There’s a long bench in the room, but Dean sits where he was standing and watches with growing worry as the taller man joins him, carefully towing along a surprisingly fragile girl with eyes and nose red from tears. It’s all Dean can do to stay silent while everything in him is in an uproar. _What. The fuck. Happened?_ When they encountered the nephion the first time he’d been the one to torture her, witnessing firsthand how tough a “monster” they were facing. Nothing had had an impact like whatever she’d experienced while gone and there were only very few methods, Dean didn’t get around to exposing her to.

“Right…I don’t know all of it yet,” Sammy begins before steeling himself with a deep breath, “basically it comes down to this…”

Carefully choosing his words and more often than not looking to Leira, he tells about a bastion with stranded angels commanded by none other than Michael. A story of imprisonment, torture, and rape committed by an archangel under pretence of serving his kind unfolds itself. There are a lot of blanks which the nephion agrees to fill in later, but for now she stays silent with the downcast eyes glued to the floor before her feet. Her suddenly small-looking frame is hidden behind her knees which she has wrapped an arm around, the fingertips digging into the leg while the other hand is wrapped securely in Sam’s big fist. As the story ends with Leira finding an ally who frees her, all three people in the Men of Letter’s bathroom are pale.

While the nephion’s battling with the memories of the trauma, the guy that loves her is desperately trying to find a way to make her feel better. And Dean? The numbing shock of realization ignites and burns white-hot. It doesn’t matter that Michael’s a world away. This crime has to be dealt with in the only appropriate way.

“Fucking bastard!” The hunter can barely contain his rage, but he knows he has to for Leira’s sake. “I’m gonna _kill_ that son of a bitch, I don’t care what it –“

“You can’t.” Eyes like dark alcohol finally meet his. “You can’t get there, and even _if_ you could…he’s dealt with. I killed him.” The calm with which the woman states the fact would have been eerie if it had been anyone else…in this case both men find it comforting. “I drank him, he wasted the last grace to heal even if it made him human…and then I…smote him.”

Sam cocks his head. “You can…do that?”

“Like a Rit Zien.”

A hesitant silence follows her answer only to be broken be Dean. “I’m not sure if I’m happy you ganked the jerk or bummed that I don’t get to…” His face’s contorted by grim lines that match the burning hatred for angels…on a general basis, of course. “Tell you what, though.” Green eyes challenge Leira to return the burning gaze. “I’m fucking proud of you. For getting through it, facing the asshole and, apparently, doing what you needed to before finding your way back home.”

…

 _Home._ Something’s making the nephion’s eyes water. In an effort to hide it, she dips her forehead down to rest on the knees, causing the dark hair to fall around her face like a curtain.

 _Home._ She’d witnessed the delight, the joy, when the stranded angels had finally returned to Heaven. They’d been ecstatic, rushing around to rediscover the place they once were familiar with and their laughter and crystal-clear jubilation had filled the halls, breaking the eerie silence of past ages. Meanwhile, Gabriel had been turning around himself in an attempt to keep an eye on the many brothers and sisters that had returned, his face lit by the brightest of smiles.

 _Home._ Heaven isn’t home for a nephion. Neither is Hell. For a while the bunker felt like home, and Leira wishes it still did. The feeling of strong and gentle fingers wrapped around her hand is like an anchor preventing her from getting pulled out on the stormy sea. _I used to trust them,_ the frightened monster reminds herself, _with my life_. A tiny tug by the wrist is enough to get the tall man to shift closer to her, haltingly the nearer he gets as if to give Leira time to adjust to the presence instead of overwhelming her and sending her into a panic attack. Once a few inches are all that’s left between them, it’s the woman that leans into Sam, taking his arm and wrapping it around her.

“I’d like this to be home…” she admits quietly.

The nephion can only imagine how the brothers might look at each other as they answer in unison: “It _is_.”

As silence descends this time, it doesn’t seem quite as oppressive and the woman begins to relax bit by bit, allowing the heat from Sam to melt the tension in her body to the point where the uncomfortable stiffness disappears, and he’s supporting her weight almost completely. Good thing too. Exhaustion weighs down her limbs and slows her mind. As a nephion, nothing in her ancestry nor her own unique nature indicates the need to sleep. In fact, last time it was needed was while Leira was the brothers’ prisoner. Snuggled up again Sam’s chest, however, the cotton-like drowsiness cocoons her.

“I’m gonna lift you, ‘kay?” he warns, the sound a deep rumble through the muscle and clothes pressed against the woman’s ear.

Even carried in his arms, she feels safer than she has since Michael. An analytic side to her intellect tries to remind her that it can change, that what she went through will most likely affect her relationship to any male, leading to distrust and fear. Just not right now. Draping her wings around them like an armour, nothing can get to her.


	50. Shake it off

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter got really dark and can contain triggers in relation to rape/non-con due to semi-graphic description. I've chosen to strike through the two short sequences that could exceed what people (despite the dark themes in SPN canon) might be comfortable with.

She tenses involuntarily as Sam places her on the bed in her room and lies down too after kicking his shoes off, even though each movement is narrated in a low and gentle voice to prevent any surprises which in turn can scare her. In an effort to hide the discomfort, Leira rolls onto her side, turning her back to him and looking at the dresser. Perhaps it’s on purpose and maybe it isn’t, either way the nephion is lying closest to the door, the escape route. At the other side of the door is the bookcase containing an ammo-box and gun, and in the boots (which she still is wearing) are two lethal weapons…just in case she can’t make it away from the bed. _Stop it!_ Curling up a bit more the woman forces the thoughts away from fight-or-flight mode by counting her breaths instead. _They’re not Michael. I can trust them._

“There’s no way…” Sam’s voice interrupts the incessant argumentation, “no way…I can understand how you…feel.” The bed creaks as the man turns to face her back. “But whatever you need…whatever it takes…you got me, okay?”

Curling her fists tight, the pain of the nails digging into her palms once more grounds her. “I don’t… _know_ what I need.”

“But when you find out, just tell me.” The soft brush of linen against skin stopping abruptly hints that he’s reached out towards the woman only to stop himself.

 _Why? How?!_ No one can undo it, there’s no fixing what happened in the other world. ~~Try as she might, Michael’s face contorted with mad hatred and lechery, jerking with each movement, will be seared in her brain forever.~~ Sam can’t do anything about that, but still the nephion resents him for it. No one in this world had the power or knowledge to come for her, to save her like some useless maiden in distress. _Those who could didn’t._ Praying…in the end Leira had had no other option than to pray to Chuck and Amara, those responsible for sending her to that messed up parallel universe in the first place. And as the situation had remained the same, the prayers had grown more desperate. Maybe the answer had been Tabbris? _No._ That’s not how the world works.

A warm hand curls softly around her shoulder, scaring the shit out of the woman.

“Sorry!” Sam’s moved closer, and the strain of keeping his voice light is obvious. “Didn’t mean to startle you, but you didn’t answer…”

“Answer what?!” The words come out sharper than intended, making the gentle giant withdraw his hand. After his heat, Leira’s skin objects to the cool air and she both misses and fears the touch. “ _What_ do you wanna know, _huh_?” Flipping around, she glares at him. “Do you wanna hear how _fucked_ up I’ve become? That I _thought_ I was gonna be fine, but tha-that _bitch_ still broke your perfect, little freak?!” Although she keeps her voice down, the nephion’s throwing the words at him like bombs. ~~“Or how every… single…time…when someone’s near me, it’s like I’m back there‘nd Michael’s coming t’ beat the _shit_ outta me before grabbin’ me in a chokehold and fucking me? Is _that_ what you wanna hear?!”~~

Sam’s kaleidoscopic eyes have gone wide with shock and there’s no colour left in his face anymore as if each sentence has sucked him dry of blood, leaving him as a ghoul. “If you n-need to say it…I’ll listen…”

Of course, he means it. She should have realized. However, it puts her on edge to witness his compliance. He isn’t pressuring the woman to divulge anything which probably is _meant_ to be reassuring, still the result is exactly the opposite. Quelling a shiver, her shoulders rise slightly and shift her body weight backwards and away from Sam, afraid of what he might be plotting.

The thing is: Michael would switch tactics, oscillating between pure malice and excessive, faux friendliness to throw her off balance, make her slip and tell what he wanted to hear. He’d promise the pain would stop if only she answered properly, honeyed words dripping like acid into the wounds he’d inflicted only serving as a reminder of how the angel was the furthest from trustworthy anyone could be.

Memories swarm Leira’s mind and fog her vision to the point where the face before her morphs, sharp jawline and cheekbones are softened, the shade gradually nearing that of ebony though never quite reaching the cold darkness. The worst are the eyes. Monochrome and hard like flint, although there are tiny shards of breathtaking gold, blue, and green battling to regain the upper hand. _It’s not real._ Blinking hard, the nephion sees the faint glimpse of the man she used to love. _Sam._ It’s him, somewhere under the layer of terror. _Find him._ _Find Sam._ Her hands are shaking when she reaches out towards the figure, tracing features that are different from the mask she sees, and with each rediscovery of the hunter’s traits the fake layer starts to peel off bit by bit until it’s alright again. Fingers dance along eyebrows before cradling his jaw in a palm, thumb stroking the bottom lip once to feel the malleable texture she _knows_ has been capable of obliviating her surroundings on past occasions.

“Sam.” _It even feels good to say his name._ Hair tickles against her hand as he nods. “Don’t get me wrong…but I’m gonna get a shower and I can’t have you hovering ‘round meanwhile.”

For a second, he avoids meeting Leira’s gaze and when he finally responds it’s obvious, he doesn’t like the placating answer he gives, but he doesn’t stop her. Slipping out of the bed the distance allows for somewhat easier breathing. Quickly, she rummages through the drawers to find clothes fitting for the world she’s in now before flashing out of the room.

Appearing a few feet from the bathroom, the nephion’s startled to find Dean busy with a crowbar, efficiently breaking off the remainder of the doorframe where the hinges used to be. The moment the hallway materializes around Leira, the hunter switches the grip on the tool. Poised to attack and only holding back to find the weak spot.

“Fu–! Don’t _do_ that!” Dean growls in exasperation. “I could’ve killed ya’!”

The iron clangs loudly as he drops it into the toolbox. The work isn’t done yet, and even if the guy had gotten the wood off there’d still be some constructing left to do. It’s sweet really. Humans become quite creative to sort out their everyday problems, although everything still takes a hopelessly long time without the use of “magic” or powers as it technically is.

“Move a bit.”

The bowlegged man does as he’s told, the distance suddenly shorter between a brow and the hairline. The wave of Leira’s hand initiates a sequence too fast for the human eye to see. Splinters reattach. Metal unbends. Next instant, no one would’ve been able to tell the door had been kicked off its hinges.

“Oh.” Sheepishly, the wannabe handyman inspects the result. “Not…bad, I guess.” Green eyes flash to the bundle of clothes in the woman’s arms. “Well, uhm, enjoy then.”

Watching him walk away, Leira doesn’t enter the bathroom until he has disappeared along the bend and even then, she etches a sigil to keep the door safely closed no matter what, sealing her alone in a world of cold, white tiles and faint echoes. _No one can get to me_ , she reminds herself as the pile of clothes are dumped on the low bench. _I’m safe now._ Loosening the boots first, she slips out the twisted blade acquired not nearly long enough ago and places it on top of the mix-matched fabrics. Then comes the coarse linen which she drops unceremoniously in a pile, well aware that she _never_ will use it again.

The combination of the scalding water temperature and the high pressure in itself removes the first layer of dirt rapidly, rinses away soap, and adds an angry blush in the skin. Each scrubbing pass of the washcloth adds to the rosy colour and peels off skin cells, but it can’t remove the sticky, freezing sensation left wherever Michael had touched her. _I just need to get it off._ Using continuously increasing amounts of shampoo and soap, Leira grows desperate. _More heat._ The visibility in the room is halved due to the steam from the already maxed water temperature, and twisting the nobs only brings a slight bit more pressure to the searing stream that’s barreling onto her head and shoulders. The floor beyond the shower’s flooding.

Eventually, the woman has to give up. _I am clean. It’s just in my head._ It probably wouldn’t surprise anyone to hear the reassurance doesn’t soothe her at all. Only when Leira’s fully dressed in several layers of her own clothes does a sense of security seep into her, although the layers of underwear, tank-top, jeans and a sweater hardly can count as protective. After slipping on socks and boots, the nephion walks over to one of the mirrors and wipes off the fog, creating streaks of drops across the smooth surface until the already damp fabric manages to soak up those too. _Hello._ The hair’s longer and could (despite having been finger-combed) use a brush, and the face’s void of the usual makeup she’d use…the rest hasn’t changed. _But it has._ The woman staring back in the mirror is an echo from the past still waiting to fade away as time catches up, waiting for reality to hit. Straightening the back, Leira breathes in deeply. _There’s only one way now, and that’s through this. I’m stronger than that son of a bitch, he won’t win. Not then, not today, not tomorrow._

…

Grasping the steering wheel lightly, Castiel revels in the calm surrounding the pregnant woman. What the child had shown him…words can’t quite convey the experience, but the angel finally knows what he has to do. _This is bigger than all of us._ Still, he fears the choice he has made has cost him the friendship of the brothers, maybe permanently even if he hopes they will understand when the time comes. The guys are smart. Instinctually, he reaches out with his grace to find Dean, and of course there’s nothing to sense because of the sigils protecting the fierce hunter. _Please, forgive me._

“Where’re we goin’?” Kelly pipes up, her hand circling the swollen belly.

Reminded that a human can’t travel forever, especially not when with child, Cas reverts back to a type of plan he’s familiar with. “If you need to, then we can stop at the next town with more than one motel.”

“That would be good.”

 _How peculiar._ Any animosity between the two of them has evaporated like dew under the sun, granting them a deeper understanding. _Faith,_ he muses, _we have faith in the same._


	51. Losses

The mood had been strained when Leira returned to the room. Wanting to make sure she was okay, Sam had waited patiently for her to reappear, and though the woman averted her eyes it was still obvious she’d cried again. It re-shattered his heart to witness this strong person had been broken. “What can I do?” He had asked her, afraid to be sent away yet accepting the possibility of having to go. Instead, she’d surprised him by asking him to stay, to hold her without saying anything. He did. Felt Leira melt into his embrace. Sensed how their heartbeats began to echo each other. That’s how Sam fell asleep, finally succumbing to the stress and worries that he felt soothed by her mere presence.

When he wakes, the nephion’s still curled up in his arms. The only light source is the small lamp on the book case where previously he could’ve expected the bluish glare of a laptop playing the wide range of music she loves.

“Hey?” He keeps the voice soft, afraid to scare her. It’s Sam that stiffens as she turns to face him, nervous of what he’ll see in her eyes, but he’s met by a soft smile.

“Hey, yourself.” Leira’s forehead rests against his, some deviant, dark hairs tickling his cheek. “Feeling better?”

A light scoff escapes the hunter. “Shouldn’t I be asking _you_ that?”

“I’m…I’m ‘kay for now…had some time to think and…kinda process shit, I guess...” Trailing off, her gaze turns inward as if she’s re-assessing something.

“So…just like that…you’re fine?” _Impossible._ The hours Sam (and Dean if he ever accepted it) could spend with a shrink are endless. How should it be less for her?

“No. But…better, I think.” Puffing a short sigh, the nephion fixes him with amber eyes. “I kept trying to get back to you. Every day and every hour.”

Slender fingers comb through the hunter’s hair before trailing over neck and shoulder where they come to rest, a warm palm anchoring the reunited pair. There’s no resistance as Sam pulls the woman closer, no tension as their lips meet softly.

It takes a few minutes, maybe, before Leira pulls back, the tip of her tongue darting out between the lips before she opens her eyes.

“Time’s up.”

Sam’s only opened his mouth to ask what she means when there’s a knock on the door and his arms are empty, the woman suddenly standing at the other end of the room to grab the backpack as she calls for Dean to enter.

…

“Mom?” Behind him, Leira and Sam enter the room and close the door. Dean hadn’t seen the mother’s usual ride outside on the motel parking lot and something tells him they’re out of luck. 

Searching the place is quick and efficient, providing them with absolutely no information other than that their mom’s gone and not planning to come back. _Damn Brits._ Yeah, so he can’t blame them for every setback, but when it comes to Mama Winchester they sure as hell have something to do with anything bad happening. Of course, calling them doesn’t help either, Dean realises as soon as Ketch answers the phone, the polished voice slick and void of emotion or humanity.

While the brothers discuss the options, the nephion’s standing quietly by the door. It’s good to have her back, but her presence’s disconcerting because he can’t get the memory out of his head. A glimpse of bright light and enormous, dark wings. A man sailing through the air by the force of the silent burst. _Maybe she should’ve stayed at the bunker?_ But Leira’s here now and who knows…it might come in handy.

When Sam’s phone rings, there’s a glimmer of hope inside Dean. For a second, he allows himself to entertain the idea that it’s their mom. It’s Jody instead. Looking over at the change of tone in his brother’s voice, the older of the present hunters realizes that (one:) whatever the conversation’s about, it’s really serious, and (two:) Leira’s standing right next to them and he hasn’t even heard her move.

Head cocked, lips pressed together, and hands curled into tight fists, the hybrid’s listening intently and Dean has no doubt she actually can hear Jody. The scotch of her eyes is aflame under furrowed brows. _How bad is it?_ Judging by Sam’s expression it’s pretty damn crappy.

“Mom?”

The answer’s a quick shake of the head while the brother remains occupied. “What the hell happened?”

A slender hand reaches for the tall man, stroking his arm soothingly even if it does little to abolish the shock painted on his face.

…

 _Eileen._ The nephion has heard the name once or twice when the boys have talked about other hunters. She always sounded like a girl who knew how to pretend to be sweet. All hunters are tough people who won’t take shit from anybody. A lot are solitary creatures, so to say, but some have mastered the art of socializing and adhering to the norms of a society. Still, few people notice when a hunter disappears, the only ones eventually missing them are the others in the same line of business once the rumour starts to spread through the network. Those who hear stop for a moment and remember the encounters they’ve had with the deceased, but then…life goes on and there are monsters to kill.

Not this time.

This death hits the Winchesters hard, especially Sam, and for a brief moment there’s something unspoken passing between the guys, something Leira’s not privy to. _Old flame? New flame?_ Whichever it is, it doesn’t matter because duty calls and it might just be a steppingstone in the quest of finding Mary.

…

Donning the “FBI”-suit’s done in the back of the impala with her powers for once, although Leira still prefers the way she’s always done it for over a century. _Not while they’re there._ Right on the front seat, the boys are working through a similar maneuver before driving the last few miles to the morgue in South Carolina.

It’s been a long ride, but they’ve spent the time well, doing research and finding out that this isn’t the first hunter to bite the dust recently. Far from. The last three weeks have been hard on the monster-fighting community with a verified seven casualties. _It’s too many._ In that line of work, only few get to live long enough to retire and that’s a price each hunter’s painfully aware of. But who else will do what it takes and keep the oblivious civilians safe from things that go bump in the night? A hunt goes wrong, a monster gets the drop on the person tracking it, shit happens. Just…not that often.

As the car comes to a halt, Sam turns to face the nephion, concern radiating from him and mixed with the sadness of losing a colleague and friend.

“If you rather, then you can wait out here.” His voice’s hoarse and he tries to clear it. “Hrm. It’s okay if you need to take a step back sometimes.”

She knows the tall man means well. “I’m coming.”

Together, the three enter and flash badges which magically grant them access as well as all the time they need with the evidence and the corpse.

Hard floors and dreadfully coloured, tiled walls augment the detached coldness that comes with the purpose of such a place. Steel tables reflect the white light, bouncing it off onto the metal storage-lockers which each can hold a meat suit. The entire place stinks of death. Not fresh death with cooling blood and the echo of the last breath of the deceased, and also not the decaying death of corpses forgotten for too long. No. This is the sterile smell of tools, cold meat, and chlorine to rinse anything the body comes in contact with. Leira has to breath through her nose for a moment before she can detect anything else than the overpowering taint of the coroner’s work, but once she’s gotten accustomed to those layers, she can delve deeper, picking out the subtle traces left on the pale woman on the slab.

 _She’s pretty._ A pang of something white-hot skewers the nephion by the sight of the brothers’ reactions, especially Sam’s, but she pushes it down and out of way to concentrate on the clues. _Sulphur._ Deep claw marks, gouges from teeth only partially hidden under the sheet covering the female’s body. And that stench of singed, damp fur even if it’s only from one creature and not its pack.

“Hellhound.”

Sam utters the word as a question simultaneously with Leira’s statement. There’s no doubt, and of course Dean confirms. _He’d know._ Even if he doesn’t actively remember, he still spent a lot of time in close proximity to the beasts while he was being tortured in Hell.

Something’s off about this one, more than the brothers’ baffled musing as to _why_ a hound would be set loose on Eileen. There’s another scent. Faint, too fragile to isolate, yet still too strong to ignore. While the guys talk through status quo, Leira leans in, sniffing deeply to memorize the wayward trace properly. _Gunpowder, herbs and…_ something that still eludes her. Dean’s just finishing about having to ask Crowley which makes the nephion’s wings shiver as she straightens up.

“I agree,” she reluctantly admits, “but I don’t think it’s one of _his_ hounds per se.”

An angry flame has been growing in Sam. Now it makes his voice hard as he turns to face the woman. “What do you mean?”

Forcing herself to stay put, she glances between the guys. “The hellhound hasn’t been near another monster for some time. Downstairs, the tend to keep them in groups in the kennels, it lets them fight out some of the aggression on each other rather than the handlers and owner.”

“Why’d I get the feeling I shouldn’t be surprised?” Sighing, Dean runs a palm down his face. “So, y’think this one escaped?”

“Nah…I…” This is where her theory get’s wobbly. “I _think_ it’s got a handler. Smells that way. It’s just…hard to pick up something solid from the remaining scents.”

Looking at the men, their faces hewn in rock and the green and polychromatic eyes being the only clue to their thoughts, Leira recognizes when they reach the same conclusion as she has. Calling the King of Hell to ask about his hellhounds will only work if there was a chance, he’d be honest. You can say a lot about Crowley, but truthful isn’t one of them.


	52. There's always a downside

A cloud of dust is released as Castiel pulls the curtain aside, revealing a view of a forest-bordered lake. The nearest town’s roughly ten miles away, five of which take any visitor along smaller county roads and winding gravel-tracks until the house appears behind a dip in the landscape. _Perfect._ Constantly staying at motels is becoming hazardous considering the many factions searching for Kelly and the child, and every town the duo visit brings new risks of getting spotted.

The slight shuffle of feet carrying extra weight comes from the doorway behind the angel. “I told you to wait in the car.”

“And I figured it was safe.” Kelly ignores his gruff voice expertly by now. “Can’t you feel it? This is…this is the place.”

Yes, he can feel it. Finding this house is all part of the baby’s plan. The boy needs calm, safety, for the remainder of the pregnancy and naturally it guides the mother and Castiel along the right path, leading them to this place. _A safe haven._

“I believe the…bedrooms would be upstairs.” Turning to face the woman, it pleases him to see the joy twinkling in her face and curling the corners of her mouth. “I will drive to town to pick up supplies later.”

…

 _I’m an idiot. A bloody, reckless fool._ Balancing on a ledge in the brimstone-stinking cliff-wall, Leira picks out the next place she can seek shelter on the way through this particular corner of Hell. Of course, it’d had to be her going in considering the brothers would have been barred access through the only entrances safe for humans. _Stupid, demonic restrictions._ They didn’t prevent the nephion from coming and going the same way she’d used a few decades ago, although she partially had expected it to be closed by now.

Distant screams are audible, bouncing through the tunnels carved out of the stone and densely packed earth. Those are the sounds from the acid pits where certain souls are treated to “cleansing baths” reserved for VIP-members when the usual torture gets boring. It’s an old technique and rumour has it that the current King of Hell never assigns new souls to the demonic spa unless there are very special circumstances in play such as pissing off the Crowley personally…and even then, he never ventures down there to gloat. _Wonder if it’s true._ Either way, today isn’t the time to find out.

Flashing to the next corner, Leira envelops herself in the shadows and scans the next stretch of the path for traps or glyphs that can cause problems for anyone with angelic blood. _Thank you, Lucifer._ There’s nothing. Every official entrance is warded tightly, but once past the border nothing seems to be prepared and the nephion has no doubt that it’s a remnant from the old boss’ days as it would’ve made things difficult for him too.

“Ya lost?” Deep and cold like the bedrock surrounding her, the voice startles Leira. “I get’ya, girl. Was new here too…once…”

The speaker finally steps out from the darkness behind a pillar across the tunnel. The oval face with the sharp cheekbones has a boyish charm to it especially as a crooked smile lights up the male’s jet-black eyes. _What the…?_

A perfectly manicured hand’s stretched out towards Leira. “Nice to meet ya. I’m Charun.”

 _How much of this is he faking?_ The hand’s still extended in midair between them as unwavering as the glistening smile of the demon.

“Ela.” Her mother’s name is the only one she can think of right now.

Forcing a smile, she steps out into the open and grabs the offered limb steadily. _Don’t let him smell the fear._ Sure, there are parts of Hell that even demons don’t want to hang around in, but this part isn’t too bad for anyone with a reason to actually be there.

“Huh…that name rings a bell.” The nephion feels her skin crawl as he scrutinizes her for a moment. Then his eyes switch to a nearly human, brown shade and he grins. “Anyways, don’t worry, friend, everyone gets lost a couple o’ times in the beginning. Ya’ll learn it event’ly.”

Two tiny stubs similar to the beginning of goats’ horns are briefly visible as he brushes the chocolate-coloured hair back in a way that oozes of confidence. This guy has been around for a long time, and he relies on charm judging by the way he carries himself and the detail to self-care and grooming. The deep-red suit is perfect for his quite impressively athletic body, and the woman can all too easily imagine how the black shirt beneath must stretch across pecs and biceps with each of the fluid movements. _Player._ It’s all useful information.

“Yeah, you got me, mr. Charun,” she smiles shyly while batting the eyelashes once for effect, “I wanted to check out the kennels, but I think I must’ve taken a wrong turn. I’m not below that often.”

Tilting slightly in the stance, her hip protrudes to accentuate the curves. _Damnit, why did I wear a lose t-shirt?_ It had seemed sensible at the time, of course, as she hadn’t planned on using any tricks that basic. Still, it’s obvious that he likes what he sees, and he holds out an arm for her to slide into, allowing his hand to curl around the slim waist.

“Preferring t’ be on top?” She grants him a giggle at the less than impressive pun. “Too bad, I’d’ve loved for ya t’ get low more often.”

His hand leaves it resting place momentarily to stroke a few of the short feathers near Leira’s shoulder blades, sending shivers of repulsion through her. Each molecule in her being screams for putting a quick and efficient stopper to his unsolicited fondling and sweat begins to break out along her spine as cold panic grows in her guts.

Then Charun stops the fingering and whispers in her ear. “Babe, just breathe. I’ll go easy on ya.” _Yuck, he thinks I bloody like that!_ “I’ll show ya to the kennels. Ya’re actually on the right track.”

 _Fucking Heaven, he’s actually serious! Can’t he see my grace?_ Unless he’s luring her into a trap it’s the only explanation, and so the nephion smiles sweetly and allows him to lead her through the passages while he tells about the chaos he used to wreck in his active times.

…

Slamming the metal door heavily behind them, Sam follows his brother down the curving staircase of the bunker and into the kitchen where Dean begins to unpack the food and drinks that they had gotten on the way back.

They’d promised Leira to wait with calling Crowley until later in the evening and knowing just sitting around waiting would be impossible, they’d done all they could to spend the time wisely. By now the phones and mails of all the hunters in the US must be lighting up with questions (not to mention theories) about the deceased allies. If anyone knows anything, the boys are sure to hear about it.

These are the times the Winchesters really miss Bobby. He’d have known exactly what to do and the list of people owing him favours would’ve come in real handy right about now. Both Dean and Sam have run through every contact in their bonus-dad’s diary. Some of the numbers work. Most don’t.

“Time to make that call, Sammy.” Dean’s pouring whiskey for both of them, suspecting they’ll need it before the chat with the self-proclaimed King of Hell’s over. It’s not the older of the brothers who’s dialing the impossible number, 666.

As expected, the phone rings a few times before Crowley answers and the demon sounds less than thrilled at the line of questioning. _Look at the bright side,_ Sam reminds himself as the line’s cut, _the bastard answered._

Returning to the kitchen, he shrugs at the other hunter’s unspoken question. “Claims they’re all accounted for.”

Dean just scoffs at the idea of Crowley ever wanting to say anything else. “So…either there’s one on the lose he doesn’t know about –”

“– or he’s lying, yeah.” _Good plan with a drink._

Grabbing the glass, Sam can’t help but think of Eileen. _Amazing girl._ She’d clocked him the very first time they met each other, and not lightly either, before going on to prove that she was one hell of a hunter.

…

Castiel winces quietly as the desperate voice rips through his thoughts again. It’s not the first time Mary has called out for him today, and he does want to help her because he can feel her distress as clearly as he can feel the flimsy plastic bag in his hand dig into the fingers from the weight of the items and nourishment for Kelly. He can’t answer her prayers, though. Helping the woman would mean abandoning the unborn child and its mother for too long. Besides, the place where Mary Winchester is isn’t easily accessible to angels, and so it’s with a pang of guilt that he pushes the woman’s cries for help aside.

 _If only they understood._ Picking up a pie to study the molecules, Cas loses himself in a shade of green more vibrant than the grass in the Garden of Eden. The angel’s heart aches at the memory. This is not how he wanted things to be, and although he knows it will work out in the end each day without seeing Dean or communicating with him is tormenting. With a sigh, Castiel drops the pecan pie back into the non-freezing freezer (sometimes humans still baffle the angel). _This too shall pass, and Dean will understand._

…

“Marvellous, aren’t they?” Charun isn’t looking at the massive beasts below in the pit, but at the woman by his side. “I come ‘ere almost ev’ry day to admire them.”

As repulsive as the hellhounds are, Leira has to agree with the demon that they’re impressive in their own way. The size of ponies (on average, obviously) but equipped with claws and teeth designed to tear through flesh of much bigger and tougher creatures these aggressive canines are a sight to see. Leathery skin (almost like scales in some areas) is visible on legs and belly while the rest is covered in coarse fur that extends into a shadowy gloom which constantly surrounds the beast making the glowing red eyes the only part that truly stands out.

Glancing over at her companion, Leira nods. “I get why you like them.” Below, half a dozen heads whip around, seeking the visitors with keen eyes and sniffing noses. “I take it they don’t like strangers.”

The biggest (it’s the size of a horse) gets on its feet and pads soundlessly to the edge of the enclosure. Suddenly, the hefty, spiked, iron fencing leaning in over the pit doesn’t seem entirely adequate in terms of guaranteeing an escape proof environment. _That monster could clean jump the fence._ The shadow around the hound rises in waves as the fur stands on end, the first warning before a low rumble travels through both air and ground, and as if on cue the rest of the pack follows the leader. Bared teeth and agitated huffs send a shiver down the nephion’s spine.

“Right ya’re, babe,” Charun smirks, “that old bitch’s protective o’ her family.”

 _Of course, it has to be a female._ “They’re her cubs?”

Leira does her best to ignore the growing agitation. Growls are turning into deep, cough-like barks and snarls. All the attention’s directed at the outsider. _They see it._ The grace. Blindingly obvious to angels…and apparently hellhounds.

“Every single one o’ them. She’s very protective, so she’s been on edge since one o’ her babies’s been lent out.” Finally, he turns the attention fully to the hounds. “Gotta say, tho’…this is worse than normal, save for feedin’ time.”

As he steps closer to the edge to get a better overview there’s no doubt in the nephion’s heart what she has to do. Bending discreetly, she slips out the angel blade, extending the motion into a fluid movement that brings her flush up against the demon’s back with the silvered weapon between them. In and up, then tilting it to cause maximum damage within the ribcage.

“Thank you for the tour, demon.”

If he hears, he doesn’t have a chance to answer as his tainted soul flickers and burns, adding to the stench of sulphur, rotting meat, and dog. Leira holds his full weight with the blade before wrenching it free and kicking the empty, dead vessel over the ledge to see it tumble into the pit below where the ravenous beasts throw themselves at it, tearing it limb from limb and fighting amongst themselves to get “first right”. Only the gargantuan bitch stands quietly, smoldering eyes fixed on the nephion.

…

 _Why’d we head back into town?_ Sam can’t make out the words on the paper anymore, but he’s read the letter so many times he practically knows it by heart. It’s a good thing they did because now the brothers have been warned. The British Men of Letters _are_ up to something, if nothing else then at least Eileen’s death. _Which involved a hellhound._ That’s one problem in itself. But if the Brits have killed _one_ hunter…what’s to say they haven’t offed more? _Dean has already discovered that Ketch’s lying about mom’s whereabouts which honestly is the only smart thing to do in case –_

The jerking from the car coming to a halt rouses the hunter from the negative spiral of thoughts. First things first: Eileen has written her place was bugged. Maybe the bunker is too.

The brothers are about to enter the closest thing, they have to a home, when they sense movement behind them. Dean has his gun out in record time while Sam’s grasping the knife as they whip around to face whatever or whoever is trying to get the drop on them.

“Easy, boys.” Scotch eyes skip between the weapons before locking onto Sam and Leira’s features adopt the same cheerfulness as concrete. “What’s happened?”

The big brother nods, tugging his weapon away. This time he’s not explaining

“Long story short,” Sam begins, pushing stray hair out of his eyes, “Eileen sent a letter which we just received. She knew the Brits were after her…I’ll explain why later…and they’d even wired her place.” A sigh escapes him. “She’s on the way here for safety.” _And we failed her._

“So that’s who _borrowed_ one of the hounds.” The woman’s words make Sam’s skin crawl. “’Cause an insider happened to divulge that one, and _only_ one dog, is out an about. And he did make it clear it wasn’t an accident.”

An angry snort escapes Dean. “Great. The psychos have Cujo.”

“And we have to check the entire bunker for bugs…” Sam adds, already tired from the thought itself.


	53. Taking prisoners

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relatively close to canon because it was too important to ignore.

The rumble of the Impala grows louder before it cuts out followed by the slamming of its doors. From the dark corner inside the warehouse, Leira can hear the familiar footsteps of the brothers as they lure the (hopefully) unsuspecting British Men of Letters into the trap.

Sam hadn’t been happy using the nephion to handle the enemy, but in the end, he’s had to accept the logic. Lady Bevell won’t go in and get her hands dirty if she can avoid it, but the goons will need to be dealt with in a way that leaves the Winchesters free to incapacitate the ruthless woman. What better way than to guarantee the foot soldiers’ cooperation than with a creature they don’t know exists or how to beat?

Scents of foreign sweat, synthetic tactical gear, and guns are carried on the damp night breeze. _Two. Men._ One of them even wears cologne which he should know better than to do because it makes him much too easy to track for any monster. _It’s not even a nice one,_ Leira wrinkles her nose at the alcoholic spice-mix the guy has doused himself with. That alone ought to be an offense worthy of punishment. When the door slams shut with a metallic whining and clang, they both turn to recover the only escape route. _Morons._

Abandoning the hiding spot, Leira flashes right behind them. “You lads ought to know better,” her chipper note has a distinct British accent, just for fun, “never leave your backs exposed.”

They get time to look around at her, time for the fear to really settle in as they notice her impossible fangs extend, twisting her smile into a snarl accented by ink-black eyes. Then she lashes out at the taller guy (the one with the smelly perfume and a pathetic attempt at a mohawk), grabbing him by the windpipe and tossing him through the air to collide with a shelving unit. Fingers are still clamping around a warm and messy chunk leaking crimson.

“What the –?”

The other guy, graced with surprising soft features, doesn’t bother finishing the sentence, opting instead to empty the magazine of his gun. The shots don’t find the intended target because she’s no longer there. Instead the creature’s behind him, ripping the collar of his jacket and tactical vest aside and biting into the soft skin of the neck.

_Warm…earthy…_

The blood’s bitter with fear and desperation but still ignites a feverish need to drain the man of every drop, and Leira intensifies the punishing grip on him to ensure the meal doesn’t escape. He struggles. They always struggle. At first vigorously, using all his strength and tricks until the raw power begins to fail him as it’s flushed from his body with each pump of his frantically beating heart and the deep, greedy sucks of the woman. Monster. Oblivious to all else than that one goal. Each draught ignites ripples of goosebumps along her spine as the velvety fluid floods her mouth, covering the tongue in a warm coat tinted with iron. After downing the first mouthfuls without delay, the nephion begins to swill the blood in her mouth to coat every surface. Her tongue plays with the initial bites, pressing broadly between the gouges or slipping the tip in to momentarily stem the flow.

All too soon the flow ebbs and Leira’s senses begin to return. She find herself partially kneeling on the floor and partially straddling the limp body of the man, her upper body hunched low over his shoulder to reach the (until recently) swollen jugular vessels. _What a mess._ Despite having done her best not to let anything go to waste, it’s impossible to prevent spills completely and glistening trails guide to the floor below the corpse where a glistening pool has collected. _Oops?_

Satisfied and savouring the peace, Leira wipes her face clean in the ex-Brit’s sleeve, grabs his gun and reloads it before flashing out of the dusty warehouse to find the guys.

…

The smell’s weak enough that Sam knows it’s not the nephion bleeding. A few drops are drying on her top and hoodie but it’s the sated look in her amber eyes that lets both hunters know what she’s done. Bevell, on the other hand, has no idea what’s going on. All she’s seen is a woman stepping out from the dark and getting into the car without a word.

It’s a tense ride even before they start the semi-interrogation. Leira’s sitting on the backseat next to the psychopathic woman, supposedly completely at ease although she never once takes her eyes off Bevell.

“You must be Leira?” The Brit attempts to regain a sense of control. “Back after a hiatus…where exactly?”

A lazy smirk elevates one corner of the nephion’s mouth. “Did you know that etymologically speaking, _hiatus_ comes from the Latin genitive of the word for _opening_?”

“Of course, the current use was introduced to the British vocabulary in the middle of the 16th century.” Bevell’s words are snide, frustration at not getting a straight answer evident.

In a corner of Sam’s soul sits a dark voice, pleading for the immediate death of his old torturer or at least the chance give back in the same kind he once was treated under her watchful eyes. There had been no remorse, no emotion at all in her eyes when he was at her mercy, similar to now where there’s no fear or even concern about her own safety visible. The blonde woman sits perfectly poised, head held high as though she’s royalty and beyond any actual danger.

_But we need to know._ “Why are you spying on us?”

…

Stepping into the bunker, it takes a moment too long to sense the change in the air. There’s always a scent of gunpowder and alcohol in the place, of man-sweat and soap, so it’s a few seconds too many before she hears the footsteps, realizing others are there. Walking before Sam down the stairs, the hunter almost bumps into her as she stops and breathes in to test the odours, and when the vaguely familiar male voice rings out to the little band and their prisoner, Leira can feel the friendly giant’s hand curl defensively around her own. Instincts scream for her to flash away. Instead, she stays.

Suddenly, they are surrounded by men in tactical gear with weapons drawn. She sees the way the brothers look at each other. _Not without a fight._ Seconds feel like minutes from the order to disarm the trio is given, granting time to take in the smooth movements as Sam gains leverage over the slender blonde to fire the first shot. Free of Sam’s grasp, Leira can charge one of the men as the two first fall victim to the Winchesters. Wrapping one arm around the stranger’s head and the other around his shoulders, she wrenches forcefully, twisting until he “looks” the opposite way of what anatomy books recommend. Landing in a heap, the nephion has to push the heavy body aside to see what’s going on.

Sam’s retreated around one corner with Bevell held hostage, Dean’s disappearing through the kitchen to cut off a couple of men heading into the mini-maze of hallways, leaving only Ketch behind. _Quantity over quality._ A soundless flutter’s the only trace as she follows the older hunter’s example.

…

The enemy might be Men of Letters, sort of, but this is Dean’s turf. Making his way quietly down the familiar corridors, he doesn’t have to worry about spotting blind angles or which way leads to where…it’s home. A home he’ll defend tooth and nail.

About to step around a corner, pissed but focused on the hunt, he checks first and sees the two guys Ketch had waved off. Pulling back to calm his heartrate and guarantee a steady hand, he nearly pisses himself as he comes face to face with Leira who simply winks at him before stepping out into the open. _Not gonna be outdone by her, damnit,_ he continues to curse inwardly as he follows her.

Their first shot’s aimed at the woman, but it wizzes past Dean because she teleports, reappearing behind them instead. At that point the gruff hunter has fired already and is taking aim at the last man standing.

“Just go.” The woman’s order almost sounds like a purr rather than a growl as she busies herself with the soon-to-be dead man.

Not wasting a second longer, Dean sprints by the way the Brits had come, barrelling up behind Ketch and successfully disarming him.

For a few minutes everything seems to be going great. Mom even shows up, armed and ready for business. Then it all heads for disaster. None of the brothers can believe a word they’re hearing until a bullet buries itself in the wall and the tables suddenly have turned without any hope of reversal. _This can’t be happening. This can’t be mom._ Both Dean and the son of a bitch Ketch see Leira appear behind Mary, a glistening triangular blade in hand. _No, don’t hurt her! This isn’t what she wants, she’s being made to do it._ Desperate to save themselves, the grown son still can’t abandon the vain belief and sacrifice the woman who gave birth to him. _We only just got her back!_

Somehow, he manages to catch the nephion’s eyes. Maybe she sees what he’s thinking, maybe it’s because Ketch perfects his aim at Sam’s head, either way, the woman lowers her weapon. She even stays where she’s until the odd duo’s ascending the metal staircase.

“Ah-ah! Don’t move.” Ketch calls out mockingly. “She _will_ shoot.”

The moment the door closes, Dean starts running. _No!_ Leira had moved too, but they’re both too late. _This can’t be it._ He’s not sure what’s worse, seeing mom twisted and brainwashed like that or the fact that they’re now stuck in the bunker. He knows the engineering behind the place, so he knows that Ketch’s right: this place can become their mausoleum. _Son of a bitch!_ They’ve got to find a way out. If for no other reason, then because he can’t leave mom in the hands of those jerks.

Turning to face the nephion, he knows he’s clawing at smoke. “Leira, can you…?”

She has the decency to look apologetic. “You know I can’t. It’s only because the wards are powered down a bit that I can _walk_ in and out of here.”

“What exactly _are_ you?” Bevell quips, surprisingly unfrazzled by the fact that she’s been left to die with her enemies.

It’s comforting, really, to hear the question, because if the British maniac doesn’t know it’s because mom hasn’t told them, and if that’s true, then there’s hope that at least a tiny fraction of herself is still in there, fighting to regain control despite whatever they’ve done to her.

Teleporting to right before the blonde woman, startling her for once, Leira leans in close. “I’m your worst nightmare.”


	54. Quality time

Leafing aimlessly through the pages, it’s hard for Leira to push aside the chagrin. A gnawing feeling of frustration, of having failed the brothers, is planting itself in the tension of her shoulders and gritting of her teeth. On top of that comes a cold dread, sometimes threatening to fill her lungs when the woman feels the walls moving in and the imagined sound of footsteps belonging to someone else nearing her.

They knew the wards prevented her from flashing out, but then they had asked, naturally, if she could break through to the outside world by force and even though the nephion had feared the worst she still tried. And failed. In the same way the supernatural forces of a demon cannot be used to break the devil’s trap, so had Leira’s abilities failed because the walls and exits are all active parts of the protection build into the bunker. She could do nothing more than any of the three humans.

Glaring over at the woman at the other end of the table, the idea of ending the measly British life’s appealing. _They think they need her._ With a prolonged exhale, the creature tries to focus once more on the yellowed pages before her. Old, Scandinavian magic with roots in the mythology of the Vikings. Fortune telling. Banishment of evil spirits. How to befriend the Fae Folk. On and on it goes with interesting yet utterly irrelevant rituals. By the final page, Leira slams the book shut with a hollow thud before placing it on top of the growing pile. They’ve gone through dozens of books without any luck.

 _If I’m getting tired…_ glancing around, she sees the dark bags under the three humans’ eyes. “Gonna sort some snacks for y’all.”

Looking through the fridge, she’s pleased to see a diverse assortment of foodstuff, indicating the guys have been doing the grocery shopping together recently. Egg, rice, chicken and vegetables are lined up on the counter. There’s more than enough for three days and after that… _well we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it._

Sam always amazes Leira by how softly he can speak. “Need a hand?”

“Nah, it’s okee...I just needed to clear my head for a second.” She shrugs, refusing to turn around to meet his eyes.

“Leira…” Big hands touch her shoulders softly before drifting down her arms. “You’re not alone.”

 _No….not yet, at least._ However, that’s the problem. Sure, it’s horrible to be confined like this, trapped once more even if it’s in a place she can consider home which is a humongous upgrade from the circular cell. But they’re on a deadline, and if they don’t make it out before the oxygen runs out it’s hard to tell how much longer it will take the offspring of angel and demon to perish. It’s not like either kind truly needs air. _If that happens…_ a tremulous breath escapes Leira, prompting warm arms to slip around her in a comforting embrace.

“Just breathe, babe.” The scruff of Sam’s stubbles pull lightly in her hair only to replaced by the soft lips. “I’ve got you.”

 _I can’t be like this!_ “Shouldn’t I be the one to soothe _you_?” Turning in his arms, she nevertheless buries the face against his chest. “You’re the human, I’m supposed to help you.”

The soft scoff booms through the cotton and flannel covering his chest. “You _already_ do.”

…

Stepping back to take a look at the work, Castiel knows the sigils will only slow down anyone trying to come for Kelly and the child. Still their familiar, power-laden shapes soothe his frazzled nerves enough for him to breathe deeply, realizing for the first time that the old familiar paranoia has returned to haunt him. He trusts the unborn boy unconditionally, knows that by following the child’s will, Kelly will give birth to a new hope for peace on earth.

Stepping through the front door, Cas takes care to wipe his shoes on the mat before heading up the stairs to the room the mother-to-be calls a “nursery”. Kelly’s sitting on the floor, encumbered by the swollen belly as she reaches for each item needed to build the crib. She’s humming. A simple melody dancing through the room on the light from the evening sun, adding a warmth to the sweet melancholy the notes conjure. For a moment, the woman pauses to listen to a songbird saying goodnight outside the open window, then she continues with renewed vigour. The odd pair has never truly once spoken of it, but Kelly won’t see her child grow up. The time she has with the boy is here and now as he grows within her. She will be nothing, but a name spoken by those who knew her by the time he becomes old enough to understand, and so the woman’s taken it upon her to ensure him the very best beginning she can give. And this room, the nursery, is Kelly’s pièce de résistance where she pours all of her love for the child into every single detail. Cans of paint are stacked by the biggest wall where she’s sketching a mural which one day will reveal the name she will choose for her son.

Castiel remains in the shadows, observing the woman as the furniture takes shape by her hands. His own father may have willed the world into existence, and yet as the angel watches it dawns on him that each time Kelly or any other human builds something or copulate, they too are capable of the same boundless creativity. That their small inventions are a celebratory echo of the greatest thing of all. Life. Now this simple woman is carrying the entire world in her womb, fulfilling God’s dream by carrying on the legacy of creating life. _Did Father mean for this particular life?_

…

“Man, that was good!” Tossing a crumbled napkin onto the table, Dean flushes down the last bit of the stir fry with a gulp of beer. “Thanks, Leira.”

He’s unsurprisingly done before the two others, even if Sam’s not far behind. Prodding delicately at her portion, however, is Bevell. At first, she’d insisted on exchanging hers for one of the men’s and it had clearly thrown her that no one objected, adding to the distrust towards the cook

 _Smart move, but not necessary this time,_ Leira smirks. “What’s the matter? You really think I would poison you?”

“Frankly, I wouldn’t see it past any of you to do it,” the blonde huffs, “grunts rarely think long term strategy and I’d not be surprised if any of you lost sight of my value.”

Reaching over towards the unhappy woman’s plate, Dean pointedly jabs his fork into a piece of chicken smothered in curry sauce and pops it into his mouth without anyone trying to stop him. “I’m not sure we got anything that’d work on a poisonous bitch like you anyways.”

 _Ooooh, good one._ Of course, not everyone at the table appreciates the hunter’s comment, and if looks could kill then he’d be dead. They cannot in this case, and so Bevell’s reduced to glaring angrily at him as she takes her first mouthful.

“No, we need your _supposedly_ impressive intellect to help get us out of here…though I wouldn’t mind changing the plan.” Staring unblinkingly, Leira twirls the scroll she’s just finished (without finding anything of use).

Bevell has to swallow before she can answer, perfect makeup slightly smudged by now. “And you? Aren’t you going to eat?”

“Why do you think I’m feeding you?”

“Alriiight!” Pushing to his feet, Sam grabs his near finished meal and motions for the nephion to follow. “Time for a change of scenery!”

Laughing softly at the paling face of the British woman, Leira follows the tall man without objection all the way into his room.

After getting her acceptance, he closes the door and sits her down on the bed. The bags under his eyes are still there, even if the food has given him a bit more energy. Studying his face, the woman scrutinizes the lengthening stubbles that don’t hide the tension of the clenched jaw or the pull of his mouth as he presses the lips together. Deep worry-lines are set between his brows, underlining the lackluster quality of his skin. _He’s the only one that hasn’t slept._ As the hunter sinks unto the bed, she joins him, reaching out to catch his hand after he puts the plate of food aside.

“I know, Sam…” the woman sighs, “you need her. But that doesn’t mean I have to trust her.”

Rubbing his forehead thoroughly, it takes a moment before he answers. “I don’t trust her either. I don’t even believe she _can_ fix mom…but we have to try.”

“By letting _her_ do anything else?! She’s got about as much compassion as a robot.” _Or an archangel,_ memories roar in the back of Leira’s mind. “She’d make an exceptional torturer but _not_ a nurse.”

The woman’s nearly too preoccupied to notice the slight distortion of the hunter’s features at the words, and he does his best to hide it, busying himself with the now cold meal. It’s that, the sudden urge for him to do something else, to stay silent, that tips the nephion off that something’s wrong.

“You know?” Shifting on the bed to catch his eyes, there’s no need for any other confirmation. “You _do_ know…”

When both men had finally decided to trust her, they sat her down and walked her through the various players on the board and the situation in general. Of course, the British Men of Letters had been high up on the list if for the simple reason that one of their people had gotten to Sam and tried to break him. Thankfully, she hadn’t succeeded. When Leira’d first heard the story, she’d been impressed by the tall man’s tenacity…even if she hadn’t said anything then. _It was her._

“That _does_ it –“ The moment the huge hand clasps around her wrist, Leira regrets not simply flashing out of the room because now she has to listen to Sam plead for the life of a real monster. “I’ll dig through her head first to find out how she plans on fixing Mary, but you _cannot_ tell me that bitch deserves to _live?_ ”

“You’re right…I can’t.” Still he maintains the steel grip on her, pulling her awkwardly onto the bed. “But when mom’s alright, and she _will_ be, then it’s up to her to deal with Bevell.”

Dark grey dominates the many-coloured irises shadowed by knitted brows. This is not the gentle giant that hums softly when Leira’s fingers comb through his air, this is the warrior with the sharp mind and absolutely no inclination towards showing mercy. Conflicting emotions battle within the woman, a primal need slowly and relentlessly winning over the fear planted in her in another world. _Hot damn!_ The muscles of his jaw are working together with his urgent breathing to accentuate each line under the skin downwards until the t-shirt and blue-checkered flannel covers the marvellous build. Leira traces the hem of the lose fabric with light fingertips, then the defined pecs beneath the thin cotton where his heart’s beating hard and fast as her palm splays against the chest. Strong double-taps against the ribcage. She feels them pick up the pace when her gaze locks onto Sam’s lips, lightly parted to allow the tip of his tongue to sweep across.

It’s her choice when she pulls him closer, fingers tangling in the t-shirt. Leira’s decision when their lips meet hungrily, for once abandoning all caution since her return to the world she knows as her own. A tiny spark of thought reminds her to be impressed by the man’s restraint even as his large hands roam her body and he kisses fiery trails everywhere he can reach, because despite the obvious need eating him up he doesn’t take the control away from her…and he doesn’t complain when she pulls away, bile in her throat and body shaking as events she wants to forget are clawing at her mind.

“’S’okay, Leira, it’s okay,” Sam coos gently while staying completely still, “no one’s gonna hurt you. Just breathe.”

…

Virgin’s blood. Of course, none of the people stuck in the bunker qualify as donors and when they’ve got a solution, Leira’s offer is left out for safety reasons.

“What’s wrong with _her_ blood?” Bevell demands to know as she nurses a gash in her palm.

 _Idiots, they should’ve cut their arm or at least back of the hand._ However, the nephion hadn’t been present when the three humans did what they had to, although it’s not long since the woman drained a fully-grown man. Coming back into the library is making her fangs ache even now that the scent of the blood’s diluted with the other ingredients for the purification ritual.

Shoving an old tome across the table at the blonde, Dean glares at her. “That’s need to know…and you don’t need to.”

Sam expertly completes the ritual and the tiny success of getting that far can be felt like a shift in the air between the four prisoners. As Bevell uses her linguistic expertise, the others hold their breaths until the light flickers with a heavy buzz and the droning from the ventilation shifts.

It doesn’t last.

Nothing magical’s going to work, according to the British woman and logically the three others know that she’s probably right even though it chafes to have to agree with her. Whether they dislike it because of a burning hatred towards the woman or the fact that their situation becomes increasingly dire…well, that’s hardly necessary to dwell on. Stacking the books and scrolls, Leira shoots the blonde an icy glare resulting in an exasperated puff of air. _Five minutes alone with her._


	55. Break away

Hours of hard physical work has passed, each breath lacking the needed oxygen and Dean knows time’s running out. Perhaps it’s just the effects on the brain, but a wild recklessness has taken root inside him, strengthened by the weight of the grenade launcher in his hands. _I got a say in this._ He recognizes the same burning in his brother’s eyes as the tall man drags a protesting Bevell away, leaving him alone with the nephion. Leira. She seems to be the only one unaffected by the changing conditions, at least physically speaking, and now she’s refusing to leave on the grounds that she can shield him from the blast. _If anyone can, she can._

“You ready?” The adrenalin makes his own words echo in Dean’s head, drowning out the distant roar of the air turbine and any answer the hybrid might have given.

 _Here goes nothing._ Lifting to aim, the hunter knows there’s no going back. Only one regret fills him as he squeezes the trigger and the recoil combines with Leira’s bodyweight to press him backwards against the cold wall. For the second time, he sees the stark silhouette of her wings before he has to shut his eyes tightly against the explosion that forces the female closer even though she’s bracing against the tiles behind him. _Well, hello. I get ya, Sammy._

The momentary delight’s extinguished as the room shifts around them and she forcefully shoves him through a hole in the wall he had aimed at. _It worked. Awesome._ But at the same time, he feels a sharp pain burn through his left shin. Dean’s tried worse many times before, still it doesn’t fall into the category of “pleasant”. Fearing what he’ll see if he takes a look downwards, the hunter squints through the billowing dust instead to find the metal rungs leading upwards to freedom, but as he reaches out for it, he’s stopped by a firm, slender hand that he traces back towards a grin.

…

Dust and smoke fills Leira’s nose and eyes, making it impossible to smell anything but charred concrete or see much besides shadows. Blinking quickly solves the problem only partially. _We got a task to do._ Why waste time climbing a ladder when a single thought is enough to bring you to the top? Ignoring the confused looks on Dean’s face, the nephion grins excitedly as the sense of freedom rolls over each nerve-end in her body.

With another flicker of concentration, the outside of the inner bunker-entrance materializes next to them together with the concrete walls and the slightly slanted metal doors that lead to the fresh air, the road and the forests surrounding the area. Next to them is the housing for the mechanical overrides to all things technical in the Men of Letters’ old facility.

“Locked!” The indignation in Dean’s voice is unmistakable as he yanks at the heavy chain and padlock. “Son of a bitch!”

Pushing the man resolutely aside, the nephion grabs the weak attempt at keeping anyone from accessing the panel on the other side of the locker door. _I’ve seen Cas do it._ It takes a moment longer than the angel would need, but eventually the lock softens and bends lightly at the pressure of her fingers. She pulls down hard, tearing the thing into pieces and granting Dean the opportunity to work the controls and restore the bunker to a fully functioning home once more.

…

The rush of oxygen attempting to saturate the stale air inside the bunker might as well have been visible, and although the diffusion’s quick enough to help the remaining humans recover relatively quickly, Leira still refused to leave Sam’s side until they all were outside once more. Not even to bicker with the big brother to fix his broken leg. She’d offered, of course, and he’d refused when she’d admitted that healing anyone else would be a first for her. _Better save it for a life-or-death situation_ , Dean had grumbled, shooing her away. The scent of the drying blood pungent to the nephion, making her fangs throb painfully.

Stashing the British woman securely on the backseat, the men frantically go through each phone hidden in the Impala in the hopes that Mary might have reached out to them. Those numbers are, hopefully, unknown to the British Men of Letters. _Maybe._

“Can’t you just sense her?” Dean rages as he discards another device without having gotten any answers.

It makes sense that he asks, even if it’s born out of frustration rather than actual hope it’ll work. As long as Mary isn’t shielded in the same way as the boys with Enochian sigils burned into their ribs and she’s not in a place like the bunker with wards…then yeah, Leira should be able to sense the whereabouts of the mother. However, exactly those restrictions have seemed to be at play on the previous occasions when the nephion tried before their focus shifted to the breach in security.

Sighing, convinced of a negative result, the dark-haired woman decides to placate Dean and closes her eyes to extend her consciousness like a feathery blanket, allowing it to be picked up on a non-existent breeze and stretched until it engulfs a many-coloured orb in a dark infinity. Leira expects it to dissolve in a shimmer. Instead it’s pulled towards a pinpoint, shrinking as it funnels onto the familiar essence of a woman who’s been moved in time. _But that’s…I’ve been there!_

“Hey!” Sam’s face runs pale at whatever he’s heard on the phone he’s clutching tightly, the seriousness spreading to his brother. “Jody.”

The few seconds of having known is enough to allow Leira to formulate a sort of plan. “I’ll go.”

“No.” Dean’s words don’t make sense and she’s about to object when he continues, “She’s our _mom_ and we need to make sure we _all_ get there.”

Even without the lazy nod towards the car, no one would doubt who’s included, and instead of discussing it further, the nephion clambers into the vehicle with the closest thing she’s had to a family for more than hundred years.

…

Feeling the roar of the engine vibrate through his body, Sam knows that finding and helping their mother is only the first step, because although Bevell’s the one who technically did the brainwashing, she didn’t do it on her own accord. _I was too easily swayed._ The knowledge is bitter as it’s pumped through his veins, making him cold with guilt. _This is on me. We knew they were bad news._ Things could’ve been different, he knows, if only the temptation of a utopia that never can be…at least not at the behest of an organisation that shies no means as long as it serves the goal.

Without realizing, he’s begun pressing a thumb hard into an old scar in his palm.

Sometimes, it feels like only yesterday that the world was simple, and he knew who the monsters were. Werewolves, vampires, demons. The brothers thought they’d figured it all out. _Boy, were we wrong!_ Many alliances and friendships had been found on the “evil” side, not unlike the horrible minds and dark plans have been found amongst those who ought to be good.

Shifting slightly in the seat to rest the elbow against the window, the tall man runs a hand tiredly through his hair, tugging harshly at the roots to keep himself awake. The drive will be long, and even if he knows it’d be smart to get some rest now there’s a chance if the self-deprecating voice in Sam’s head would just _shut…up!_

A warm hand from behind settles tenderly on his shoulder and triggers waves of calm, soothing the tension that’s turned into concrete (not just from the last hours). In the end, he succumbs, allowing his chin to rest against the familiar fingers, and his eyelids become heavy like lead as the hunter drifts off into a dreamless sleep.


	56. Renegades

Leaving the women in the car, Sam and Dean enter Jody’s home without even knocking. There’s no need to: even if they hadn’t told her that they were on the way, she’ll have heard the Impala’s engine before they turned into the driveway. It’s with anger seething cold in her chest that Leira watches the two men disappear from view, one of them still limping on a leg that might get infected if not treated soon.

“Why do you take orders from them?” Bevell’s voice holds only disdain. “Clearly, you’re not a simple hunter like them.”

The leather of the car seat creaks slightly as the nephion turns to face one of the objects of her hatred. _I promised_. Holding on tightly to the thought, she resorts to glaring at the blonde. Nothing in the Brit’s face rats out her emotions with the exception of an arched brow. Curved in challenge. Curiosity. _Elitism._

“Orders?” Leaning closer to the wretched torturer, it’s tempting to place a hand onto Bevell’s forehead and dig out every bit of information needed, make her relive the worst memories over and over again. Smite her. Instead the nephion only reminds her: “I don’t take orders from anyone…but fortunately for you, I do remember their wishes.” For a moment, a darkness flashes in the nephion’s eyes and makes the human gasp. “Once they realize, however…”

Fear is ripe in the air trapped inside the car.

…

There aren’t many people gathered in the living room belonging to sheriff Jody Mills of Sioux Falls, and those hunters that have shown up look glum and distrusting as they listen to the younger Winchester. Watching the brothers, Leira only partially pay attention to the words, choosing instead to be wowed by Sam’s attitude itself as it bolsters the courage of those present without once promising something he can’t give. She sees hostility turn to unwavering support in the new faces, and Dean…Dean’s listening quietly, pride welling in his eyes and his jaw set with determination.

Leaning closer, her lips nearly brush the shell of his ear to ensure only he will hear her. “He will want me to heal you rather than leave you behind.”

His breathing halts but the heartbeat picks up without the rest of the people in the room knowing. “Even if you did…”

The motion, a slight nod towards where his mother is tied up, solidifies her suspicion. Were everyone to leave on this attack upon the British Men of Letters’ base, then both Bevell and Mary would be left behind unguarded. Even tied up and gagged, the idea’s unsettling especially considering the mother’s resourceful even when she isn’t herself. _But what can he do?_ The British bitch had been clear that she never had undone this kind of damage before.

 _Reverse engineering._ The concept resonates within Leira, voiced by a scotch-eyed figure trying to share a fascination for human ingenuity as much as attempting to teach all he can to his odd child, knowing that every day is precious – an odd sensation for an immortal being like an angel.

“Don’t be a fool.” Finally, her words make the older brother scowl at her, because Dean Winchester doesn’t take orders from anyone and he’s ready to bite back. “But give her Hell.”

A dark malevolence breaches the smirk, proving the understanding between man and nephion.

Feral and uncomplicated – understanding him had never been an issue. His motivations were clear and logical, and he’d never hidden his thoughts, creating an odd mirror image each time Leira looked at him. But the hatred had dissipated slowly, and now here they are as unlikely allies entrusting the other with an important task before Leira leaves with the army of hunters. The brothers have come to an understanding too, prompting the tall man to stomp out the door, tight lips and clenched muscles to uphold the illusion of confidence. _Here we go,_ Leira turns to follow.

“Watch out for Sammy, ‘kay?” The grip on her upper arm is tight and Dean’s voice is gravelly.

 _Of course, ass hat._ “Get her back.” _And don’t lose yourself._

…

Though the furniture is sparse in the little house by the lake, Castiel still feels the place’s becoming a home. Slowly, but surely Kelly leaves her imprint on their safe haven, spilling further than the child’s room. Each time she wanders through the house, she offers ideas on what could be useful to have, and the angel gladly accepts her expertise because his own knowledge of interior decoration is…lacking. Some things he purchases brand new, others are recycled, inadvertently providing a sensation that the odd pair isn’t new to the home.

Looking over the still waters, the angel struggles between reason and delusion. To assume, or even hope, that this will be a home for years to come is naïve, and Cas should not allow himself to become emotionally attached to this place despite Kelly’s insistent efforts of creating the perfect shelter for her son. _Until Jack is old enough, no longer,_ the angel promises, unaware that he has begun to use the child’s name too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, is anyone reading this? I know 2 people do, but if that's all, then I'll just mail them rather than spam irrelevant stuff here.


	57. The rising tide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Explicit sexual content. I've marked it with a strike-through, so it's easy to avoid. My apologies for making it harder to read for those interested.

Entering the bunker, Leira can taste the acrid scent of blood and gunpowder right away. The next impressions to hit her senses are the smell of wood and subdued voices, one male and one female. _He did it?_ Turning slightly, she smiles up at Sam to tell him everything’s okay despite whatever might wait for them at the bottom of the stairs. Golden highlights warm the dust-coloured eyes as they widen, looking past her to the scattered pieces of debris on the steps to the library.

In a heartbeat, the nephion perches on the platform by the archway, beaming reassuringly as the hunter hurries after her because now…now she can hear the words spoken between Dean and Mary, and this is not a conversation with a brainwashed killer. Sam hears it too. Standing stock-still he lets the meaning wash over him, face pale and hands clenched as if gripping tightly onto something that might slip away if not guarded fiercely. Leira sees the invisible punch to the gut from hearing his mother’s concern, sees the pain morph into determination padded with a tenderness that spurs him to go to Mary.

This is their moment. A reunion for the boys and their mother and a chance to start over. Quietly, Leira leans back against the cold concrete behind her and closes her eyes as a thought tugs at a heartstring before she can smother it. _Does he feel like –_ swearing, the nephion cuts off the rest of the useless ache, _he wasn’t my father…just looked like him._ Either way, the Rit Zien known as Tabbris is worlds away. Literally. No amount of speculation will change it. No oceans of longing for the lost will bring back any of Leira’s parents.

…

There’s no answer when Sam knocks softly on the door. Pushing it open, he finds the reason is that the room is empty, and he follows his instincts along the hall on bare feet and around the bend until he faces another barrier. This one’s unnumbered, sporting instead a discreet sign as to what’s on the other side of the dark-painted wood in case Sam hadn’t been able to hear the running water splashing onto the tiles.

Rather than knocking or waiting his turn, he simply slips in, confident that it’s neither Dean nor Mary. Dirty clothes are piled unceremoniously on the floor next to the pair of worn, heavy boots made for so much more than walking.

“Sam?”

He looks up at the sound of the woman’s voice and finds her looking past the bit of wall supposed to grant privacy in the shower. Dark hair is dripping, partially clinging to her face, neck and shoulders, and serves as a stark contrast to the knuckles that are white from clenching onto the wall.

“You disappeared…” It’s a weak excuse that makes Sam’s own hair bristle.

Leira doesn’t answer at first, merely bites softly into her lower lip as if worried about something. “I didn’t…” she begins hesitantly, “didn’t want to intrude. Looked like a family thing.”

“And that shouldn’t include _you_?” The words come out more condescending than intended, and Sam’s ready to do anything to take them back when he sees the impact on her, the way she recoils and lowers her gaze. “Babe, I _want_ you to be a part of this…this _messed up_ family of misfits and hunters!”

He’d swear she mumbles something along the lines of “yeah I’m messed up”, but it’s hard to make out the words as she retreats out of sight, under the shower. Always the shower. Admittedly, there hasn’t been many chances, but whenever there’s been a moment since she came back, Leira has taken hour-long showers as soon as she thought the rest of them were asleep. _Like she’s trying to wash something off._

“Leira…you get that I still want you here with me, right?” Sam tries to keep his voice from breaking, walking to over to lean his forehead against the cold, damp tiles separating them. “Nothing’s changed.”

“But it _has_ , though!” There’s a cracking sound muted by a splash. “ _I’ve_ changed! And I fucking _hate_ it!” On the other side of the wall, the woman groans in frustration. “I’m me…but I’m not. Like I’ve broken and somehow put myself together back wrong. Like…like I’ve got a bit of that bastard stuck in the glue and it won’t…come…out!” The last few words are punctuated by hard splashes.

 _No. Hits…?_ Without bothering about getting wet, Sam circumvents the barrier, fearing what level of destruction he’ll be facing. He finds the naked figure supporting herself against the wall and facing away from him, as though she’s still unaware of his intrusion. But there’s no holes in the wall or bloody knuckles despite the fine cracks running across the surface of a few of the tiles between the nephion’s splayed hands. _She held back._ The relieved sigh that escapes him makes Leira flinch.

“It’s okay…it’s just me,” he soothes, “I won’t hurt you…and I won’t let you hurt yourself either. I –”

Sam forgets to speak when he realizes what he wants to say. _It makes sense. How could I be so slow?_ All this time. _I love her._ The careful dance to avoid seeing what must have been so clear to anyone else…and now it might be too little, too late.

“You what?” Leira demands with a glance towards him over her wet shoulder.

He doesn’t dare touch her, letting his hand drop at the last moment instead. “I love you.” Amber eyes narrow and her lower lip falls victim to her teeth again. “I guess…I’ve done si- for ages, really. Just never…said it. There’s no world that can change that. But I get if it’s not something you can return, really, I do but if you don’t want me to love you then at least love yourself.”

Slightly out of breath, the tall man waits for the inevitable rejection, eyes closed because he won’t, can’t face her now in spite of everything. His name on a shaky sigh hits Sam like a fist to his gut. _Alright, makes sense…how can she trust anyone?_ Still, it stings to accept that there’s nothing he can do to get back the sassy, confident woman he got to know, and he turns to leave. Slender arms wrap around his waist, wet fingers digging into his abs, and he’s extremely aware of the warm body that’s pressing itself against him.

“You make me feel…” Leira presses her forehead against his spine while searching for the right word. “Safe. Calm and clean like I’ve soaked in a bath that’s…”

 _I think, I get it._ The sound of the water is the only thing Sam interrupts when he offers an ending to her sentence. “That’s washed the bad away and replaced it with something good?” Softly, carefully, the hunter strokes her arms and hands in the hope of soothing her.

Clenching him tighter, Leira nods. “Yeah…only a tiny bit of…bad’s stuck in the darkest corners.”

She allows him to turn in her embrace and cup her face between his hands to tip it up, to meet his eyes. “You’ll flush that out too, babe. I’ll help you.”

He’d meant to let go then. Honestly, he had. ~~Without leaning down to kiss her like he’s doing now, slow and deep, the tongue sweeping over her plump bottom lip in search for entrance. And Sam wonders at the wisdom of it all when she grants it, even returns the gesture with a hunger that makes him forget everything else than the two of them, and the scents carried on the steam of the warm water still cascading, now onto both. Sam’s still a bit hesitant as his hands begin to roam languidly over shoulders and back, but he’s rewarded by a soft moan against his lips. Trembling fingers push and pull at his drenched t-shirt, prompting him to discard it with a wet thud as it lands somewhere. By then they’re already back in each others’ arms to the extend that’s possible with the feverish dance of fingers across skin.~~

~~…~~

~~Leira’s not sure when it happened, exactly, that she got enough of struggling with the jeans, when the big hands tracing the curves of her body sending burning tingles of electricity into the skin and deeper, much deeper. She just knows that Sam’s naked too, wet and slippery in the tangled mess that’s their limbs. Nails are digging into his shoulders, lips soothe where he peppers love bites onto her shoulder, collarbone, breasts. All of it contributing to a boiling desperation growing in her core and begging for more.~~

~~However, the moment Sam lifts her, hands wrapped behind her thighs and the lukewarm tiles pressing against her back… _not like this._ The world moves. _I decide._ Although Leira’s smaller, it’s easy to wrench his hands away, lifting them above his head where she can pin them against the bench Sam suddenly finds himself lying on, flat on his back and with a dripping nephion standing with a leg on either side of his hips. Surprise flashes bright in his eyes before the darkness from the lust returns once more.~~

~~“’s’okay.” Muscles roll as he wiggles into a more comfortable position. “You’re ‘n charge.”~~

~~“Damn straight, I am.” She can feel the truth of the words.~~

~~Bending, she licks and kisses broad paths over his pecks to the tender spot on the neck that always makes him shiver. Then down again, crossing the hard planes of the abs, nibbling at the thin skin by the hipbone while her hands find his length and begins to stroke. _Slowly._ The gasps and groans her ministrations elicit makes her lips curl in a smile.~~

~~“Now…that doesn’t sound too bad…”~~

~~Sam doesn’t answer with more than a grunt and a long sigh as she twists her hand around the crown. Looking towards his face, the nephion can see how tightly he’s gripping the edges of the bench. So hard that his knuckles are white, and the wood might splinter…but he promised she’d be in control.~~

~~All it takes is a simple order for his hand to replace hers, obscuring much more of the cock as he deftly continues stroking, fueled by the performance displayed so close (yet so far) to the angry coloured tip. And a show he gets. Slender fingers trace folds, massaging each swell and edge to and from the clit which gets special treatment. Sure, the water might be drying on their skin, but it’s obvious to Leira that he’s admiring a different wetness altogether. _It’s amazing,_ she manages to think, _that he can hold his promise._ And with the satisfaction of seeing her trust rewarded, the woman sinks down onto him, sheathing him in one slow movement.~~

~~…~~

~~The image of his lover’s chest fall and rice rapidly as her back arches is seared into Sam’s brain with a warm glow of bliss and the shadow image of wings stretched to the heavens. In the end, she’d placed his hands on her hips to help smoothen the stuttering movements until he too toppled over.~~

~~That’s an hour ago. And they’re now lying tangled up in his bed.~~ Finally, there’s no fear or pent in distrust. There’s just them. Beginning to heal. Even with all the crap waiting for them the moment they leave the bed, it’s hard not to hope that maybe, just maybe, things could turn out all right for once. And if not…well at least Sam’s gotten his semi-angel back. When Leira turns in his arms to snuggle closer, their eyes meet without the woman looking away. The fear and guilt which has been setting the scotch ablaze is gone, leaving behind the smoldering embers recognizable from before Chuck and Amara sent her away. _She’s back, the world can wait._


	58. Whiskers

The words from the phone speaker send shivers down Dean’s spine. For a moment it’s a relief to hear how unconcerned with them Lucifer is, until the bastard just _has_ to jab at Sammy for the role he’s had in the Devil’s past. Yeah, all right, so his little brother claims not to feel bad about it anymore. That he’s put it behind him. _Bullshit._ Dean’s known the man his entire life and he never stops beating himself up for anything he actively could’ve changed. And now…it sucks to hear the fallen angel point out exactly how weak they are, unable to stop him in any way.

 _We can’t kill him or trap him…there’s gotta be something._ “Listen, he’s underestimating us…” Dean fumblingly begins, hoping an idea will come to him if he just starts talking…but there’s nothing.

“He sounds as arrogant as Michael,” the nephion observes, “but bat-shit-crazy on top of being evil.”

None of the Winchesters laugh save for the scoffs and crooked grins. With all that’s happened since they (supposedly) trapped Luci it’s still not long enough ago somehow. It’s almost impressive how long Crowley’s been able to keep the truth about the Devil’s status hidden. _Everybody lies._ Maybe Crowley isn’t dead, sure, that actually wouldn’t surprise the hunter, however there’s no reason the witchy red-head wouldn’t be because Lucifer never lies.

“So…we know what he wants.” Mary straightens up in the seat, mind already ticking away to find something they can use. “We need to find Cas first and warn him.”

“He thinks Lucifer’s locked away.” Sam confirms.

“And then what? We can’t kill him…and we can’t slam his ass back in the cage.” Rubbing a hand down his face, Dean breathes in and out to remain calm. _We’ve tried._ “It’s not like he’s answering my calls, guys.”

“Yeah…okay.” Deep wrinkles are the only thing keeping Sam’s brows apart. “So maybe we play for time.”

Leira’s head whips up, causing the dark hair to dance through the air. “Find Cas and Kelly. Keep them moving.” Apparently on wavelength with the giant, she rattles on. “If Lucifer can’t find them, he can’t hurt them.”

“You think Castiel’s gonna go along with that?” their mother points out dryly.

 _Might as well play this scenario through._ “Think we’ll give’m a choice?” _Play along, don’t let them feel hopeless._

A hollow sound, like wood before it splinters, makes all the Winchesters look towards Leira who’s nails are digging into the table, leaving deep grooves and faint smears in the exposed trail. Her face’s pale, jaw clenched, and eyes open wide. _Fuck._ Nothing but blackness is swirling in the orbs that used to house scotch. Then it passes and it’s only the paleness and the nostrils flaring with each deep breath that hint at anything out of the ordinary. _Well…and the table._

“Leira?”  Without regard for his own life, Sammy’s already by the nephion’s side, arm around her shoulders. “What happened? Are y’okay?”

A shaky nod’s all he gets out of the woman before she ushers them to continue, to ignore the interruption.

…

Something’s happening, It knows as Its slumber is disturbed. _I’ve grown._ Memories flood Its mind, if one could call it such, as It evaluates the part that has come back to It, the part that once walked one of His creations, doing His bidding. Now that part is back. Home. No longer walking the worlds and reaping souls. Well…of course not all of the entity has come back. Something always has to stay in the creation to keep things balanced, clean. And so, it’s only the majority of Death that has rejoined It among the…sleeping.

But Death has been home for a while. _How long?_ It’s hardly relevant, of course, only…it’s not the return of Death that has stirred It, and so It wants to know what has. All around It, in It, they sleep in sweet oblivion to never be woken up again. It’s at It should be. _Hmmmm, no._ There’s something different. An energy It hasn’t felt in ages. Not since the siblings. _Yes, the siblings._ The boy had felt like that sometimes, when He was playing. Eons have passed, come and gone since those times, and the memories come slowly creeping until they’re within reach.

Yes, He had liked to play, making things, and at first, She had joined Him in the games. It didn’t enjoy the noise and light of their creations and It had instead withdrawn to slumber, only to be awakened by the girl. She’d been distraught. Had begged him for a way to counter what Her brother was making, and It had given Her Death, a part of himself, before going back to sleep. And so, everything with power near enough to Him would be brought to It, guided by Death who was the only one that knew the way home.

 _Yes,_ It decides, _He must be playing again._ And with that knowledge It knows there’s no need to interfere despite the lingering sensation, instead It goes back to sleep.

…

“You rang?” a gravelly voice calls out, all too familiar to the inhabitants of the bunker, “Hello boys, mother Mary…Half-n-ha–“

Whatever else Crowley might have wanted to say is stopped by a quality punch right in his face, delivered by Dean, and when the (former, apparently) king of Hell looks up from his new position on the floor he’s blinking at the angry faces of the big brother and the nephion, each holding a blade that could kill the demon.

But Crowley doesn’t get to be destroyed, despite Dean’s reluctance to let the son of a bitch live, and as the ex-king gets to explain himself, Leira listens partially while she retreats to the wall that grants support both literally and figuratively as the world seems to reverberate again with the echoes of… _of what?_ Wracking her brain, she can’t quite find anything like it in her memories from own experiences or anything she’d read. If she were to put words on the sensation, she’d almost compare it to having been injured at first, but now…like picking at an open wound. It’s not the pain, it’s the knowledge that it’s wrong. _Wrong how?_ Stretching her mind, an uncanny familiarity sets the small hairs on the back of her hear on end.

Crowley’s tone changes, forcing the full attention back on him. “What’s with Half-n-half?”

“You can’t feel it?” Leira ignores the nickname he’s given her. Apparently, none of them can. “It’s like…it’s faint, but growing stronger…like the sound of a familiar tune or scent coming from the distance…”

The brothers exchange quick glances, one questioning and one worried, potentially asking each other without a word if she’s finally snapped. Instead, it’s Mary that voices the next relevant question: what does it remind the nephion of? And it’s Crowley that seems to get the implication that’s escaping the other four when he hears the answer. _The other side…but not quite._ The ripples are tiny now, only barely moving the fabric of the world and making the echo inside of Leira astoundingly forceful in comparison.

The demon barely manages to hide the worry behind a cover of smugness. “Well well…looks like we need to hurry up if you want your plan to work.”

“What do you care, Whiskers?” The nephion’s question is echoed by the Winchesters.

“Whenever there’s a world-ending crisis at hand, I know where to place my bets.”

They let him rant for a while, presenting a very tempting deal which they have absolutely no reason to trust he’ll uphold. _Politics of demons._ The only major difference when it comes to the internal intrigues of either them or the angels, is that the former have the guts to just take out the competition and solving the problem hands on, so to say, whereas the haloed, self-glorifying, top-dwellers scheme and plot instead. That’s why Leira’s tuned out the babbling until Sam gently tugs her sleeve. _What?_

“I’ll say it again now you’re finally paying attention,” Crowley scowls, “I need you to go get some of the ingredients.”

“Me?” _You gotta be kidding._

“Well I can’t turn up downstairs for a supply run, can I?” There’s a certain smug satisfaction pulling at the demon’s mouth. “You know the way around, though. I’ve no doubt you’ll find what we need if I give you a list…if not…” Crowley smirks openly, voice soft as silk, “just ask Charun.”

The name has to circulate the memories tugged away under the dark hair before she remembers the overly confident “guide” who’d ended its days before she tossed the meat-suit to the hellhounds below. Narrowing her eyes at the would-be king at the other end of the table, Leira’s certain he’s trying to elicit some reaction or denial. _He won’t get either._

“Write what and where, Whiskers.”

She would’ve loved to see his smugness falter, but Sam pulls her aside, forehead creased with worry and jaw tense. No one trusts Crowley anymore.

“You sure?” Kaleidoscopic eyes search for the smallest hint that he may step in as protector.

Standing chest to chest, Leira can hear his heartbeat, feel the heat like a wall that carries the scents of him and the past night on the updrafts. Warm hands rest heavily on her waist as if trying to anchor her, keep her from leaving. _I don’t want to,_ she realizes, not for the first time but still oddly unexpected.

“We need that stuff, right?” He nods in answer. “Then I’m gonna get it.”


	59. House Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a looooong time since I updated (sorry), and I can't even promise it'll be anymore regular the next while. I've fallen into an MCU-pit yielding feedback and comments + each time I return to this I'm reminded that season 14 is going on and I can't see it yet. So I managed to round this off, however I've done very little editing so it may be re-uploaded at a later point.

## House call

Watching the human before him, Castiel is coming to terms with the fact that he, this Bobby, isn’t the same as the one who had helped the Winchester throughout the years of struggle surrounding Lucifer’s liberation. Although the appearance is strikingly familiar, nothing else about the man is. _Resonance._ That’s the real clue. This Bobby, no, this entire world has a different resonance much in the same way as an alternate future feels different to the one who has witnessed reality as it first took shape in God’s creation. Yet this time it’s not a discord, a broken thread in the tapestry. This _is_ the reality and it’s Cas that’s disrupting the balance with his presence.

“Another world?” Bobby’s small eyes a glittering from under the wrinkled brows. “Without angels?”

The loathing behind the words is enough to make Cas’ feathers ruffle. _It is to be expected._ “Well…not exactly.” Having listened to the hunter’s explanation, he knows these are dangerous waters. “There are some left, however they are…lost. Heaven and Hell still exist, but the power lies mainly in the hands of the humans thanks to the hunters.”

“Like this Dean and Sam Winchester.”

“Especially those two. They’ve saved the world more times than it was intended.” Pride swells in the angel’s chest at the thought of the hardships the brothers have overcome.

“Sounds like we could’ve used them here,” Bobby nods thoughtfully, “if they’re as good as you say.”

The golden rift next to the two of them dances and shimmers momentarily before resuming to the stabile apprehensive state, the only difference being the strength of the light which is now casting visible shadows behind the nearest pebbles and rocks. _Kelly._ The time for the child to be born must be getting nearer. _It’s too soon._

Bobby’s growl is somehow gentler, more melancholic, than Cas expects. “You better go, before you’re stuck here like the rest of us.”

…

At least Crowley had given a key and a few pointers on where to look, but moving down the gloomy corridors, Leira still fears that she’ll be discovered before finished with the task. And yet…it’s oddly quiet in the bureaucratic levels of Hell as she creeps between the shadows with the glinting silver of the angel blade already in hand. Reaching a new corner, the nephion pauses to stall the slight fear creeping up the back of her legs, hoping to hear if anyone’s nearby.

“I’d hoping you’d come back to me.”

The voice’s soft as silk, warm as flint, and right behind Leira. Fighting the urge to flash away, she whips around, ready to use the weapon, and it would have plunged into the demon’s shoulder if he hadn’t been prepared. Grabbing both her wrists, Charun continues the spin until the nephion’s pinned against the cold stones. She might not be able to use the weapon now that her arms are in a clawed vice grip, but she’ll be damned if she lets go of it.

Eyeing the silver, the demon smirks. “I thought it felt familiar when I stabbed me in my back.”

The attempts at breaking free are futile and only manage to piss of the female more. “And you still don’t get the hint and stay dead?” Leira bites back.

Dead or not, he has changed considerably since last time they met. Perfect green suit, chocolate hair slicked in accordance to what might be the latest fashion (is hard to tell what’s trending when surrounded by flannel-wearing guys 24-7), and the same black eyes. Crimson skin, fingers that end in stone-like claws. _He’s even got bigger horns now._ The width of a palm, they too have a very pointy ending but at least it’s only these that have been adorned with a golden layer the last inch.

“It’s a little trick I got.” When she levels her stare with his, the eyes that meet her are a recognizable brow hue. “Besides, Crowley told me about you. Couldn’t stay away then, y’know?”

 _You damn well better._ “I guess not.”

She can still flash, probably, to break free of the demon’s hold. _And what? Kill him again?_ Besides, the guy hasn’t technically threatened her, merely defended himself…in fact he’s keeping a relatively safe distance considering his advances last time they’d met. _Play for time while figuring this out._

Feigning disinterest, Leira attempts shrug. “He didn’t tell much about you.”

“I’m appalled at the oversight…but not entirely surprised.” Even in the shadowy hall, Charun’s teeth glint and there’s a faint glow like lava in his eyes – but it’s gone just as quickly as it appeared. “Neither of us are common demons, Ela. Wait…that’s not really your name, is it?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Maybe we’ve met before? Though you do feel…new…” Charun’s nostrils flare, and the nephion feels his hands heat and cool. “New and different, yes. Powerful.” The smirk’s back on his lips. “I used to have fun in South-Asia. Great times with lovely gifts to…appease me. They knew better back then than to forget about us. But humans are boring…so fragile, don’t you think? So, I found better use of my power down here. Now, when I do venture topside, it’s all changed, and they’ve forgotten how to treat me with respect. Only the very oldest seem to remember, but of course the young don’t listen, preferring instead to prescribe the uhm _accidents_ that befall them to science or natural disasters. Like a wave a few years back. They thought it was from a little earthquake off of Sumatra. Heh! And so…some died before I got bored again.” There’s no regret in the demon’s dark eyes.

“Sob-story. Still murder.” _Shut up, girl, shut up!_

“They’re _humans_.”

“They’re _souls_ and as such more deserving than y-us!” Scrabbling to prevent a mistake from happening, Leira’s brain plows on relentlessly, just like her body that’s suddenly fighting to be free of the maniacal demon’s grip. “So what? They forgot you? Big deal! You don’t need them.”

The gap he has kept between them is gone as Charun uses his body to subdue the smaller woman. “Crowley told me you’d be soft. Said it was in your making, but why?”

Unbid memories tries to distort the scenery, twist it into a room of sand-coloured stones and iron bars, fading the colours of the male to earth tones as panic claws at the woman from behind. It feels like the sheer rock is swallowing her, giving way to the heavy pressure of the archangel before her. _Not real,_ she attempts to reason with herself, but the voice is faint and quivering. The moment his face lowers towards the nephion’s neck, she loses the will to keep up appearances. One instant she’s the filling of an angel-stone sandwich, the next she’s behind him with one hand flipping the angel blade deftly for a better attack, the other outstretched towards the crimson and green figure sprawled against the wall. _Colours, wrong colours._

Blinking, Leira takes in her surroundings. _My world._ She can feel it deep in her bones, that this is the right place, all things considered. Although there’s a disturbance, a note in the grand compositions that’s slightly offkey, the nephion knows where she is. _That’s not Michael._ With a twitch of a finger, the demon rolls across the wall to face her.

Perfectly black eyes are glowing with embers of surprise, stubbornness. “My! You’ve been holding out on me.”

“Just shut up and be useful.”

She doesn’t care that the hilt of the blade slams into his skull as her fingers meet his forehead. At first the fog is heavy, resisting any attempts at navigating through the foreign mind, but then it gives way and the images come rolling.

…

All this time, Kelly and Cas had known it would happen and that it would be sooner rather than later. The birth of this child will set in motion events that will change everything for the better, but even so, the angel’s apprehensive as he squeezes the hand of the woman. _So brave._ She will die, bringing the Nephilim into the world. Castiel can feel the fear within her, but the overpowering emotions are pride and hope because she knows that her son is destined for greatness. Still, it’s with a twinge of guilt that the angel loosens the grip on her hands and leaves the room for one more sweep of the perimeter: during the delivery, they’ll be at the most vulnerable and Cas can’t allow anything to happen to neither mother nor child.

Opening the door, he comes face to face with someone he’s both dreaded to see as well as longed for. Apple-green eyes bore into the angel, making his heart skip several beats and  wings ruffle in anticipation. There’s a flicker of something kind in Dean’s face but it’s gone immediately, replaced by angry determination that matches the ill-contained fury in his voice, and if there’s more kindness to find in Sam and Mary, the conversation is still distanced (even when he allows the mother to pass and tend to Kelly). _They have every right to feel betrayed by my actions._ Either way, the Winchesters are here now and don’t appear interested in killing Jack, so Cas decides to be frank with them. Show them _everything._

…

Taking in the foreign the ravine, Sam doesn’t bother to supress the shudder at the sight. The place is marred by destruction, but even so it’s not the only the signs of war that’s getting to him: it’s the realization of just how isolated they actually are in this place. They have come here through a rift, a “tear in the fabric between the worlds” according to Castiel, and if that closes then they’d be stuck in this hellhole…just like Leira where she had been. _Fuck._ Casting a glance at the shimmering sliver of light, it seems pretty stable for now.

And still, with that sci-fi crap going on what Sam can’t somehow get his head (and really his soul) around is the fact that he’s looking at Bobby. It’s just not…their Bobby although it’s the same calloused practicality oozing from the short bear of a man.

Heaven and hell in open war is several steps up from the mess in the brothers’ own world and the destruction is evident. Death is overflowing the dry canyon, making it impossible for Sam to imagine life elsewhere, but almost-Bobby’s adamant that there are areas with plants and human settlements. This area’s simply one of the hotspots. _Great place to get a passage._

“What if it doesn’t closes? War’s gonna spread to our world too.” Sam can feel his lungs tightening at the thought. “ ‘s there any way we can close it?”

The angel’s arms extend and fall back to his sides, speaking volumes more than the apologetic “I don’t know” – a remark that Dean responds to with a scoff.

 _Stop it._ Sometimes, the older brother can be a real jerk and it’s worse when his feeling have been hurt (whether he’d admit it or not), but how can anyone know what will happen? This is unprecedented and leaves them all without a clue. One thing is for certain, though, because with the rift being a two-way passage it’s all too likely that the inhabitants of this broken world can escape, bringing the war with them.

“Rufus ‘n me got some target practice to do before that’ll happen.” _Good…new Bobby._

Dean is not entirely optimistic. “Yeah, but for how long?”

 _Point taken._ “Right…we’ve gotta find a way to deal with this too.”

“Just go. I’ll keep a watch on this place.”


	60. On the other Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Showtime.  
> Also: my hiatus isn't completely over yet + I got the MCU story going when I can which seems to be more of a crowd-pleaser, so patience is still a good idea.

“Ya could’ve just _asked_ ,” Charun points out, his fire-red face split in a gleeful grin.

_I wish I had,_ but it’s too late now and images of all sorts are seared into Leira’s memory. Not that _all_ of them had been nasty but enough had. “Uhuh,” she retorts, “and risked you lying.”

“I’d never! Not to ya!”

They’re making their way between rows upon rows of dungeon cells. Cold and damp, some of the tiny enclosures are filled with broken souls so tightly packed none of the poor beings can get to sit or lie down while other cells house only a single prisoner. Sinners, murderers, rapists, and worse. All of them doomed to suffer any imaginable way possible (and if Charun’s memories are anything to go by then also unimaginable ways).

“Besides….Crowley texted ‘nd told me to help ya.”

Glancing over at the lithe form, Leira isn’t exactly surprised, just annoyed. “Could’ve started with that.”

“Make it seem like I didna _want_ to be with ya? Never.”

He reaches out to slip an arm around the Nephion’s shoulder only to change his mind at the flash of silver. Leira hasn’t sheathed the blade, after grudgingly teaming up with the demon, both because she doesn’t quite trust him as well as the fact that she’s technically still an intruder with angel blood in her veins. It’s too much to hope Crowley’s even _attempted_ to convince anyone else that the hybrid is off limits.

Feigning innocence, Charun entwines his fingers behind his back. “So the ex-king’s private chambers, huh?”

“As I said.”

“Why?”

“None of your business.”

Reaching a door, Leira pauses to listen before pushing it open to yet another hallway. At least this one doesn’t have prison cells, although some might argue that the offices lining both sides might feel like it. _They’ve no idea._ It’s possible to pick up muffled sounds from behind a few of the closed doors, making the nephion nervous of being heard. Thankfully, Charun stays quiet too.

It feels like half an eternity before the odd duo have navigated the maze that’s Hell’s executive level and eventually found a set of double doors that are magically sealed.

“How ya gonna get in, babe?” The demon leans against the wall, arms crossed and brows arched.

“Through the door, dumb-ass.” Pulling out a key Crowley had given her, she ignores the eyeroll happening to her right.

…

_Are we “okay”? Am I “okay”??_ All too often, lately, Dean has had to count to ten. Or fifty. Sometimes more. So he’s actually rather proud of himself when he doesn’t lose his head completely at Castiel’s question even though the angel has an impressive ability to ask the most ridiculous things. “ _Okay”?_ No, Dean’s far from okay and he knows for a fact that the same goes for Sammy and mom. He can see it in their eyes, haunted by the same tiredness that goes beyond the muscles and bones of their bodies.

“Oh, come _on!_ ” Turning around, the bowlegged hunter has come face to face with the familiar face of Crowley. _This can’t be good._

As chance will have it, it’s not quite as bad as expected although neither brother feels entirely thrilled with the demon’s suggestion. Cas, however, has been nodding throughout the presentation of what might be the only plan any of them can come up with, and when angels and demons agree on something…well, it’s a good idea to listen. Besides, the de-crowned king has already set things in motion. And really, what it all comes down to right this moment is whether to focus on getting rid of Lucifer ( _again_ ) or to ignore him and risk the devil getting the hands of a kid that just might not be evil…at least according to Castiel. _Castiel who might or might not be brainwashed by an unborn devil-baby._

Pinching his brow, Dean tries to ignore the nagging feeling that the angel really isn’t all that crazy. They’ve seen crazy-Cas before, and it’d felt inherently different to be around that guy. Even when he’d been possessed by Lucifer. It’d been in the details, quirks that somehow were wrong like the exaggerated tilt of the head or the gentle hand on the wrong shoulder. Dean shudders at the memory: that hadn’t been his Castiel.

No, his Cas might not be perfect (an odd reality they all had to learn years ago when they realized just what sort of dicks angels can be), but the walking trench coat is trying his damn hardest to do the right thing. _Like we all are._ The taste of guilt is bitter in the back of Dean’s throat. It’s the kind of burn that can’t be washed away by any drink, only by doing better towards the one he loves. So what if things aren’t easy? They’ll never be. That doesn’t mean Cas doesn’t deserve all the support he can get, and it starts with some sort of show of appreciation.

Just like the bullet into the magazine, the decision clicks into place.

…

Leira’s staring at the screen of the phone that’s safely secured in a red hand’s grasp (which is a good thing, or the device would’ve gone flying against the stone wall), trying to make sense of the extra items listed there. _Cloven fang of an imp._

“Writes he’s got most of the things in here,” Charun clarifies a tad too optimistically, “jus’ not where. What ya need it for anyways?”

“If I didn’t tell you before, then what makes you think I will _now_?” she snarls back as she sets to work finding the extra stuff.

At least the flirting stops while the two search through chests and drawers, many of which are still hidden or boobytrapped even after the first round for the original ingredients list. Correction: the flirting almost stops. There’s a couple very awkward minutes after Charun finds a selection of items (that probably weren’t meant for their eyes) which prompt slightly veiled offers of sexual services rapidly followed by threats upon his life. After that, the search efforts are doubled, resulting in success.

“Allrighty-o!” Rubbing his hands enthusiastically, the pure-blooded demon takes in the haul. “Let’s get outta here, partner.”

If looks could kill, he’d be dead. Again. “First off, we’re not partners. Second, you’re _not_ coming with me.”

For a second, Leira considers pulling out the angel blade as an indicator of how serious she is, but there are better ways to prove it. Hoisting the full bag onto a shoulder, she pops a “thank you” to the demon before flashing to a shadowy corner by the exit.

_Wards up my ass._ If there’d been time for it, the nephion would have been tempted to try to destroy the barriers preventing her from flashing directly from Hell. Because of them, she has to cover the last 200 feet the old-fashioned way while hoping not to be caught.

“Now what sorta demon’s gotta _walk_ out, huh?” a familiar voice drawls right behind Leira, figuratively scaring the shit out of her.

“Charun!” Heart pounding in her ears, it’s hard to make sure no one else has heard him too. “I _told_ you to back off.”

That’s her first mistake. The nephion’s not paying full attention to the male, and for the second time in too short a time he’s got her pinned but this time without a weapon at the ready.

“No…I don’t think so. Not this time, baby.” Black eyes gleam almost as dangerously as the edge of a dark, curved blade. “Ya see…I don’t much like how ya work. Crowley might say good for ya, but I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for my own judgement.”

“I’ll only give you _one_ more chance t’ back off.”

“Pass,” Charun chuckles lightly, twisting the jambiya deftly in preparation for an attack.

…

The waiting is the worst. Rechecking the weapon, Sam’s doing all he can to keep focused and prevent his fears from taking over. _She’s fine._ Upstairs, his mom comforts Kelly, and the soothing sounds carry downstairs as soft whispers between the agonized wails caused by the contractions. Are they coming faster? Glancing at his watch, the younger hunter tries to keep track but finds his thoughts drifting to a different woman whose arrival is almost as important as the child’s. _She has to get here in time._

As if on cue, Crowley shouts from outside, kicking off a veritable stampede as the brothers and Cas hurry to join the former King of Hell. _Finally._ Where the other stop at a few feet’s distance, Sam doesn’t come to a halt until the smaller woman is wrapped safely in his arms. He can feel her hands gripping into his back, nails pinching slightly through the layers of plaid and cotton.

“Right,” the gravelly voice of Crowley interrupts the moment of peace, “let’s all stand here and hold hands, shall we? Not like we got the bloody _Devil_ on the steps any moment!”

Reluctantly, the couple parts. One handing over a backpack while the other takes in the colourful ashes in the hair. _What happened?_ But Crowley’s right: after a brief explanation about the nature of the glowing rift there’s no time to waste, no spare moment to exchange more than a hasty kiss before the two demonic beings disappear through the tear in reality in a flash of bright light that leaves the world a bit darker than before.

…

It’s hard to define if things have gone according to plan, considering that neither hunter likes to run away from a fight…especially if one of their own has been hurt. Glancing over at Dean, it’s easy for a brother to tell that some of the concern is for the angel who’d been sent crashing on the other side of the house, but then the green gaze focuses, and Sam redirects his attention to the figure rounding the corner. _Lucifer._ Oh, they’ve got his attention alright, and any doubt that the Devil would follow them is gone.

The flash is both familiar and uncanny as it fades a bit too quickly in the dismal Mad Max-world where the scarlet of explosions in the sky almost is the only colour other than the dried blood of the corpses. It’s useless to search for the amber eyes Sam has come to adore, but he can’t help it as he scrambles into position. _This better work._ The last thing he sees before hunkering down behind a knoll is Dean running to pick up the firearm with angel blade bullets. _Please, work._

By the time the bullets are making Swizz cheese out of Lucifer, Sam’s running for the spot where the more demonic participants in the plan should be preparing the spell.

“About fucking time,” Crowley hisses, “I can’t do this _all_ on my own.”

Grabbing the roots the former king points at, the hunter begins to shred them as advised. “Where is she?!”

“Beats me.” Powdered something is added to the bowl. “Went through and I was on my own.” There’s a red gleam to the stocky man’s eyes as he consults the recipe on the ancient page. “How much time we got?”

…

Dean’s not sure if they ever really stood a chance. All he knows it that a mind-numbing pain has taken hold as his eyes dance between where the rift had been and where Cas is lying motionless, scorch marks from wings tainting the sand. Somewhere there’s a voice speaking to him, but it doesn’t get through just right. Perhaps it’s because of the beating Lucifer had subjected him to. Yes, that’s why he’s hurting: bruises and cuts. Sam, because there’s only Sam left, runs off to check on someone…just not the right someone.

_Cas. Mom._

The flash from the rift closing is still blurring his vision. Has to be that, the sharp light. The world comes up to meet him, hard against the knees, but it doesn’t matter.

_Mom. Cas._

It’s so quiet. Except for the faint rustle of wind in the leaves and the broken sound rattling inside Dean’s chest. Maybe Lucifer managed to collapse a lung on him? Except that doesn’t feel quite like it (and he should know because he’s tried that before), but the ache sits deeper, somehow. Reaching out towards the fallen angel, Dean has to pause and wipe away some of the blurriness.

Already the angel’s face is cold to the touch. It’s so calm though, only a slight pinch of the brows that offer a sense of confusion rather than distress…and maybe that’s true? Cas was adamant, that they’d succeed in protecting the baby from Lucifer, and now they _have_. The kink in the plan was Cas fucking dying and mom disappearing through a rift to an apocalyptic world with no way back, and there’s almost no consolation from the fact that both would have done the same shit all over again if they’d known it’d help. Or keep Sam and him safe. _That’s what family do._ Have each others’ backs and break each others’ hearts.


End file.
